Moments of Grace - Season Four, Act One: Before I Sleep
by Parlanchina
Summary: Workplace romance never ends well. SSA Grace Pearce knows this, but convincing Dr Spencer Reid is proving surprisingly problematic. With a killer back from the dead in Ohio, a cult in Colorado, a fiery call from an old friend in New Jersey and a series of murders along Highway 99, there's plenty to keep them occupied! AU COMPLETE!
1. The Angel Maker

**Essential listening: Sleep, by My Chemical Romance**

 **0o0**

"How's the buzzing now?"

SSA Aaron Hotchner slumped in the chair across from the Bureau doctor. The auditory imaging chamber had been a trial, both emotionally and physically, and he was weary and drawn from the pain. Although he had nothing against the doctor – she was a known quantity, and he had always trusted her advice when it came to his team – he would quite happily be anywhere else. Except in the room where he'd had his latest psychological evaluation, not half an hour before.

As much as he accepted and understood the necessity of it, he loathed being assessed, particularly so soon after trauma. He couldn't get out of it, however, and he wouldn't try. He had lost a good friend in the explosion in New York, and it would take time to heal – certainly more than the week and a half it had already been.

He knew from personal experience, however, that there wasn't a chance in hell he would successfully heal if he were forced to stay at home.

"It's okay, I think I could actually get used to that part," he admitted, as the doctor took her seat. "The problem's dealing with the pain."

"You're experiencing hyperacusis," she told him. "It's caused by sudden loud noises – like an explosion."

"So what do we do about it, doctor?" he asked, politely.

"Well, you have a small tear in your right eardrum, we'll treat that with a bonding agent," she said, keeping her tone hopeful. "It'll most likely heal itself in a week or two."

Aaron frowned, reading between her carefully chosen lines. "Most likely?"

"The condition can sometimes become permanent," she told him gently, and then returned to her notes.

Aaron nodded, trying to see what she was writing without looking too conspicuous. He felt strangely powerless in this office, like a naughty schoolboy.

"But I can go back to work?" he asked, as meekly as he could.

Watching her face, he guessed her answer before she even spoke.

"Putting someone in the field with acute sensitivity to sound would be a mistake." She looked at him and he guessed that of the agents she regularly saw as part of her practice, every third one tried to go back to work too early – exactly the way he currently was. The doctor adopted a stern tone: "Agent Hotchner, you could lose your hearing entirely."

"I understand," he said, which was true – it was just that 'understanding' and 'acceptance' weren't necessarily the same thing.

"Good."

Satisfied, she returned her attention to her notes.

"But you'll… sign my return to duty?" he asked hopefully.

He watched her expression shift to somewhere between incredulity and exasperation, and wondered whether this was the way he looked when his team members tried to get out of (or back into) something he knew was a bad idea for them.

"Wh -what if I said I'd take it easy and… limit my role in the field?" he asked, before she could refuse.

While he was aware that he wasn't physically ready to go back to work, he was damned if he was going to admit it. He'd spent the majority of the last week staring at the four walls of his empty apartment and he had no intention of continuing this trend. Without Jack to distract him (he couldn't quite think of Haley yet) he was going nuts at home, even though it had only been a week. He hoped his face doesn't look quite so much like a kid trying to wheedle sweets out of his mother as he imagined it currently did.

"Stay out of loud places," said the doctor, relenting.

Relieved, he watched her write some more, hoping it was positive. She looked up, roughly in the vicinity of his midriff, and then further up, meeting his eyes. He stared back, puzzled.

"Your phone is ringing," she told him and his heart sank.

He hadn't heard it at all. Embarrassed and a little afraid at what that might mean, he picked up, making a mental note to set the vibrate function.

"What's up, JJ?"

0o0

SSA Grace Pearce came out of the coffee shop, navigated around the long line of people stretching out the door and set off towards the main bulk of Quantico, enjoying the spring morning. One of the benefits, she decided, of working in what amounted to the caffeine centre of the universe was ready access to coffee shops, and, therefore, the occasional baked breakfast product.

She had given herself more time than she needed that morning, just so she could stroll through the sunshine for a few minutes before having to immerse herself in the darkness that she dealt with at the BAU, and it was very pleasant to meander up the busy street, while everyone else rushed about, to or from their early shifts. It was oddly restful, drifting along, one step removed from the hurly-burly, so she took her time, picking each warm blueberry out of the muffin and popping it into her mouth, savouring it.

She was brushing the crumbs off her suit, ignoring the sore tightness of the healing wound in her arm (a souvenir of one of the BAU's most recent adventures) when she saw the familiar shape of Doctor Spencer Reid bounce up out of the subway, a coffee cup in one hand and a book in the other. She watched him for a moment, marvelling that her usually clumsy friend could manage to walk so easily without bumping into anyone.

He'd had a haircut over the weekend, she noted. It was a good few inches shorter than before, and unusually neat. It suited him.

Grace smiled, stuck two fingers in her mouth and wolf whistled. Half the street turned to look, including Reid, and when he saw her grinning at him across the street he blushed, about two seconds before almost walking into a woman travelling in the opposite direction. Grace laughed, watching him turn neatly out of the way and duck out of the main traffic to wait for her.

As always, she marvelled at his ability to not fall over – as long as he wasn't thinking about it.

"You're looking very handsome today, Spencer," she told him, immediately messing up his hair.

He glared at her, but not with any great conviction.

"Uh – thanks," he said, running a hand through his shorter hair, trying to put it back where it currently belonged. "Figured it was getting out of hand. Was that really necessary?"

"No, but you know me – I'm not very nice," she quipped, putting on her very best 'innocent' expression, which made him shake his head, unable to prevent himself smiling. "It suits you."

"Yeah?"

"I think you look very cute," she told him, falling into step with him.

"Thanks," he said again, cheeks turning slightly rosy once more.

Grace felt him glancing at her from the corner of his eye, smiling. She shook her head slightly, an answering smile forming on her face.

He _was_ cute, that was the problem. Too cute. She knew he had a bit of a thing for her (being a profiler had its uses, after all), and while she knew from past experience that co-workers having a bit of a thing for one another almost always ended in disaster, she had found herself incapable of putting him off.

It wasn't just that she valued his friendship, which she did, or that they were consistently there for one another when they needed it, though she had spent a lot of the last couple of months convincing herself that it was.

The feeling that there was more going on there had been creeping up on her for some time, and the team's most recent case, in New York, had rather put things into perspective. Losing Kate Joyner, with whom she had only just reconciled, had been rough, and she knew she hadn't entirely dealt with that (and wouldn't for some time), but it had been that long, awful forty minutes when she hadn't known whether her family was still intact that had prompted her to reassess a few things.

She had been unprepared for the depth of relief she had felt when Spencer had shouted her name across the lobby of the building the NYPD had been using as a command centre, nor for how desperately she had needed to hug him as soon as they'd got into the lift. It had been as if she wouldn't properly have believed that he was okay unless she had her arms around him.

The feeling had unnerved her, somewhat.

The same necessity seemed to have been in him, too, because he hadn't pulled away. There had been a moment – just a moment – where she had thought he had been about to kiss her, but it must have been her imagination. It worried her a little that the possibility hadn't seemed all that unwelcome.

Once everything had calmed down and they had found out that Kate hadn't made it, Spencer had looked after her, staying up most of the night, listening to stories of her time in London and telling stories of his own from before she joined the BAU. They had fallen asleep together, which was beginning to become a habit, and Grace had woken up warm and contented, with his arm tucked snugly around her waist and his nose pressed into her neck.

It had been dangerously comfortable to have someone she trusted at her back, and she had stayed still and quiet until he woke up, not wanting him to move away.

Later, on the jet, it had occurred to her that this was perhaps not the behaviour of someone who had purely platonic feelings for their friend.

The truth was – and she had had to admit it to herself, when she'd woken up the next morning at home and found it odd that he wasn't there – she had a bit of a thing for him, too. _Had_ had a thing for him for far longer than she was ever likely to concede – and definitely for longer than she had allowed herself to notice.

There was something reassuring about his free and easy smile, or the way he laughed, or could replicate schematics for almost every fictional spaceship ever devised, or his fondness for ghost stories, or all the other strange little things that made him who he was. She didn't even mind that he liked coffee.

She couldn't let it go any further though – that was absolutely certain. Having learned how dreadful workplace relationships could be the hard way, there was no way she would put Spencer through _that_.

 _No_ , she thought, as they turned into the sprawling complex of buildings that constituted Quantico. _There isn't a single thing about this that isn't a problem…_

"Penny for your thoughts?" Spencer asked, while they waited for a lift.

Grace shook her head, diverted from her present train of thought, and smiled. "Oh, nothing important," she lied, easily.

He nodded and glanced at the upper part of her left sleeve, where the fabric was distorted slightly by the bandage beneath. "How's your arm?" he asked, reaching out and gently touching the lower part of it – the part that didn't hurt.

"Still a bit stiff," she said, smiling at what was probably an unconscious movement. "And I keep forgetting and knocking into things, but I've had worse."

"I'm – uh – glad you didn't this time," said Spencer, turning up the corners of his mouth. He frowned. "When I saw your boot prints…"

There was an unusual darkness to his voice and he looked away. Grace nodded; she knew she had been very lucky. The four Secret Service agents who had been in the lift with her had died almost instantly when the bomb-maker had emptied his gun into it, and the boot prints her friend had seen had been in their blood. If she hadn't had magic, it would have been a very different story. Garcia had helped her find out their names and she has sent flowers to all four of their funerals, which all had been held out of state, in the towns their families lived in.

"What were you reading?" she asked, not wanting to dwell on it when the rest of their day would likely be filled with similar darkness.

He held up the book so she could see the cover: _'The Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul'_.

"Oh, now that's a classic," she remarked, and by the time they'd got to the bullpen, dropped their stuff and headed to the conference room they were so deeply engrossed in a comprehensive comparison of Douglas Adams, Arthur C Clarke and Philip K Dick that they both nearly bowled SSA David Rossi over.

"Whoa, watch it," he said, dodging neatly out of their path. "These shoes are Italian leather."

"Sorry man," Reid apologised, heading straight for the coffeemaker (though he'd only just finished his takeout cup).

"Didn't take you for a prima donna," Grace teased the older man.

"I say again," he said, "Italian leather."

Grace chuckled and took a seat, pulling out her notebook.

"Ooh, nice hair, Reid," said SSA Emily Prentiss, breezing cheerfully in. "Very suave."

"Thanks…" he said, with a frown that suggested he didn't know if she was joshing him or not.

"Here," Prentiss said, dropping a book on the table in front of Grace.

"Oh, ta – did you like it?" Grace asked, secreting _'The Strange Affair of Spring-Heeled Jack'_ in her bag.

"Yeah – it was awesome, thanks. Kept me out of trouble at my Mom's house, anyway!" She made herself comfortable in the next seat. "Mom would've preferred me to be talking to the guests, but schmoozing isn't my thing."

"What, you mean you're not all about champagne and crystale?" SSA Derek Morgan asked, coming in from the other door, Hotch and Agent Jennifer Jareau just behind him.

Emily shot him a withering look as JJ distributed files and Morgan started his own rummage around the coffee machine. Reid took a seat beside Grace and pushed a second mug towards her, which turned out to contain peach tea. She gave him a warm smile, which he returned, happily.

No one mentioned how pale and grumpy Hotch looked.

"What're you two so cheery about?" JJ asked, handing them both files and eyeing them both with mild suspicion.

"Uh – the difference between Joe Chip and Dirk Gently," said Reid, a little too hurriedly.

"Characters from sci-fi novels," Grace clarified, on her obvious confusion.

"Of course they are."

"Also, I had a very good blueberry muffin," Grace added, grinning.

Emily made a sound of disappointment in the back of her throat. "Ugh, I skipped breakfast, don't talk about food."

"Trust me, after this, you won't want to," JJ assured them, and powered up the presentation screen.

Everyone sobered up a little as the bloodied corpse of a young woman appeared. Her head was distorted, caved in on one side, and there were a series of puncture wounds in her abdomen. Apart from her exposed abdomen she was wearing pyjamas, and she had clearly been posed on the bed, like an effigy on a tomb.

"This is Delilah Grennan," said JJ. "She was bludgeoned and raped during the night at her home in Lower Canaan, Ohio."

Emily frowned. "Lower where?"

"Small town, forty miles outside of Cincinnati," JJ explained.

"Staging of the body, face up, with the arms crossed like that…" Spencer observed, trailing off.

"Ritual," Morgan agreed. He flicked Spencer's hair on his way to his seat. "Nice hair, by the way."

"Uh – thanks…" Spencer grimaced, pushing his hair back.

"Uh – there's more," JJ told them. She changed the picture to show a more detailed image of the victim's abdomen. "Small puncture wounds on her stomach – note the lack of blood."

"They were inflicted post-mortem," Emily mused. "And she was re-dressed."

Grace put her head to one side, looking at the pattern of injuries. "Oddly precise, don't you think? Looks too deliberate – could it be more ritual? Don't suppose there were dribbly candles around?"

"No," said JJ, as the others chuckled.

"Oh, well – worth a punt…"

"Were there any other victims?" Emily asked.

"Uh… kind of," said JJ, screwing up her face.

 _Kind of?_ thought Grace, _Well, that sounds juicy._

There was a pause when JJ frowned at the papers in front of her, considering her next words. "Victimology and signature match a serial killer from the same town, ten years ago," she explained, bringing up the images on the screen. "Six victims, spanning over ten months. He called himself –"

"The Angel Maker," Hotch finished, with a nod. "I remember the case. I had Pearce look it over as a case study before she transferred to the BAU."

Grace nodded. "Yeah, that was pretty grim, from what I recall," she said. "All the victims were posed the same way, and their shirts lifted up to expose their abdomens – different numbers of puncture wounds, made by a screwdriver."

"They caught that guy," said Reid.

"And executed him," Rossi added.

"That's right," JJ told him. "He was put to death by lethal injection, a year ago yesterday."

 _That makes sense_ , Grace reflected.

"Yesterday," Emily remarked.

"They're celebrating," observed Grace grimly.

"So, we're lookin' for a copycat," said Morgan, sucking his teeth.

"Honouring the anniversary of his hero's death," Rossi added.

"Says here they found semen at the crime scene," said Reid hopefully, looking through file. "Perhaps the locals will get a DNA match when they run it through VICAP."

"Well, that's where it gets weird," JJ told them. "They ran it already, and they got a match, too."

Everyone at the table made noises of surprise. Wincing, JJ handed the file to Rossi, who had held out his hand for it.

"Well, if they already have a name, why'd they call us?" Emily queried, with a frown.

"You've gotta be kidding," Rossi exclaimed. "The match they got back on the DNA is to Cortland Bryce Ryan – otherwise known as: the Angel Maker."

"That's a new one," Emily remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Killing people from beyond the grave."

Grace nodded slowly, but didn't say anything. It wasn't entirely new to her, but no one here needed to know that. She looked up in time to see Hotch narrowing his eyes at her and she frowned slightly, aware that another fairly awkward conversation was in her future.

"Let's not get carried away," he said slowly, his eyes still on Grace. "Obviously we need to get on this before the people of Lower Canaan start to panic. Wheels' up in thirty minutes. Pearce – can I have a word?"

Grace, who had been halfway out of her seat and heading to the door in a spirited attempt to avoid him, sighed and turned back, following her boss meekly to his office, ignoring the inquisitive eyes of her colleagues.

"What's up, boss?" she asked, as he dropped his files on his desk. He didn't sit down, so neither did she, sensing that this was a conversation he didn't entirely want to have, either.

"Is there…" he paused, choosing his words carefully. "Is there a precedent here?"

"For a copycat?" she asked, innocently, then relented under the hard look he was giving her. "Technically, yes."

"Technically?"

"I've never seen it before, but I have heard of it," she clarified.

Hotch watched her face for a moment, then sat down.

"What would we be dealing with?" he asked, heavily, motioning for her to sit.

"Well," she said, thoughtfully. "As such a spirit can't physically kill you, unless it pushes you down the stairs, or gives you a heart attack, or drives you mad, or something. Most of them can't do much to the physical world except makes us cold or whisper in our ears, with the exception of poltergeists and those things classed as demonic. Sometimes you get scratches and stuff, but a lot of it is over-hyped by disreputable ghost hunters – they're in the minority, but they're still a pain in the arse."

She returned her gaze to his face for a moment, but was unable to gauge his mood from his expression.

Hoping that he wasn't about to send for the men in white coats, she continued, "I wouldn't expect direct spirit involvement here, given Delilah Grennan's injuries. It could be a possession, where a spirit is using the copycat as a proxy, but that's pretty rare."

"But not unheard of?"

"I've only seen it once," she told him, "and my older colleagues could only remember a couple of other instances. That was a bad one," she recalled, grimly.

"What would we see?" Hotch asked, after a moment.

"In terms of a profile?"

He nodded.

"The proxy would profile exactly like a copycat, but with the same kind of extreme changes in behaviour as someone experiencing a psychotic break." She scratched her nose. "It's difficult to tell the two apart, really. If it's a true possession, rather than someone who just thinks they're receiving instructions from beyond the grave then the proxy will have to have been exposed to something of the deceased's – either something important to them, like a pen they poured out their heart through, or the screwdriver he used in his murders, or…" she winced.

"Or?" he prompted.

"Body parts are always a firm favourite."

He nodded again, and Grace relaxed a little, glad that he trusted her enough not to immediately dismiss the more insane possibilities.

"Anything else?"

Grace pulled a face. "Worst case scenario would be –" she winced, aware of how crazy this would sound, "a revenant."

"A revenant?" Hotch asked, both eyebrows heading rapidly skywards. "As in…"

"Yeah."

"Is that even possible?"

"I would very much like to say no, but…"

"Which is the most likely option?"

"A human copycat," she said, at once. "The occult is never the most likely option. Particularly given the DNA found at the scene. Organs break down pretty fast post-mortem, I wouldn't like to speculate whether it would be possible for a revenant to… express a sample of DNA."

Hotch considered this. "I'm not sure who I would feel comfortable asking about that."

"I could call the Medical Examiner who used to liaise with my old unit if you want," she offered. "He's used to unusual questions."

"I would appreciate that."

0o0

 _We all die. The goal isn't to live forever – the goal is to create something that will._

 _Chuck Palahniuk_

0o0

Grace perched on the chair opposite the main table on the jet, wondering whether Arnold could be persuaded to visit Washington, maybe with his counterpart in forensics, Belle. It would be good to see them again. She'd headed to the roof of the building to make her call, on the basis that there would be fewer people to overhear. Arnold had been at a rock concert when she'd answered the phone, and had cheerfully and briskly promised to call Grace back about the possibilities of zombie seminal fluid when he'd had time for a 'proper think'.

Grace had missed the man's easy approach to the more ridiculous parts of the world. It had been too long since they had last spoken, and both of them promised to keep in better contact, though both of them knew this was unlikely, given the hours they worked.

She turned her attention back to the file she had open on her knees, in which Cortland Ryan's many misdemeanours were detailed. He was almost a classic serial killer: abusive childhood, lost his mother at a young age, angry and violent outbursts at home, charming man in public…

He had grandstanded throughout his trial and his many appeals, and had probably done the same at his execution. He was extremely intense and extremely charismatic. Although the idea of murder groupies had never sat entirely well with her, Grace could well understand why this particular psychopath had attracted a follower dedicated enough to murder for him.

Reid tapped his pen on his open file thoughtfully. "The Angel Maker's victims were beaten with the assailant's bare hands," he said, frowning at the autopsy report. "Delilah Grennan was bludgeoned with a heavy instrument. Maybe a hammer…"

"Okay, so this unsub is a weaker guy – or at least someone who perceives themselves that way," Morgan proposed.

"It takes a lot of force to beat someone to death with your bare hands," Grace observed. "And a lot of rage – maybe this unsub doesn't have the same anger."

"Probably brought along the hammer to make certain his victim wouldn't fight back," Emily added.

"They have parachutes on board, right?" Rossi asked, confusing everyone.

"They should – it's standard on all federal air transport," Reid assured him, puzzled.

Rossi nodded. "Maybe we can give one to the elephant in the room? Get him out of here?"

Grace rolled her eyes.

"That'd be the elephant with the dead man's DNA," Morgan surmised.

"Well, obviously someone planted the semen on the victim," Hotch said.

" _In_ the victim," Morgan reminded them.

"That's one theory," Reid began, with the air of someone about to blow a case wide open, and for a moment Grace wondered whether he was about to go down the occult route.

He _had_ been doing a lot of research into it, of late.

"There's another?" JJ asked, leaning on the seat behind him.

"Think about who shares the exact DNA makeup of another person," Reid suggested.

"Reid, you're not seriously floatin' around the idea of an evil twin," Morgan exclaimed.

"Stranger things have happened," said Grace slowly, though personally she thought this was far more outlandish than ghosts and zombies.

"No, I'm not," he said confidently. "I'm floating around the idea of an _eviller_ twin. Uh –traditionally, the concept is a good twin and an evil twin," he expanded, warming to his theme as his colleagues shared incredulous looks. "But in this case, it's evil twin, _eviller_ twin."

He looked down, as if he was only just beginning to process how oddly everyone was now looking at him, and Grace felt the need to rescue him.

"Could be," she said carefully. "There was that guy in Portugal a couple of years back, who was prosecuted for his brother's crimes."

"Exactly!" said Reid, sending her a grateful smile.

"I think we can work on a couple of other theories before we get back to that one," said Rossi, amused.

Hotch leaned forward suddenly, clutching his head. The other agents watched him warily, exchanging worried glances, aware of how close he had come to being blown up – and how recently.

"Hotch?" Morgan asked, in a slightly admonishing tone.

"Yeah?"

"You _have_ been cleared to fly, haven't you?"

Hotch gave Morgan a momentary glare then sat back, still clutching his head, which Grace took to mean 'No, and I'm not going to admit it'. In lieu of telling her boss he was an idiot for putting his battered eardrums through intense changes in atmospheric pressure, she got up and headed to the kitchenette, while Rossi and JJ made their way back to their seats, pulling a bottle of water out of the tiny, crammed fridge.

"Here," she said, dropping it on the table in front of him, along with a pack of aspirin. He nodded his thanks, still in obvious pain, and clutched at the aspirin as if he'd have dry-swallowed the whole packet if he had been allowed to.

The agents around him eyed him with open but silent concern; they all knew full-well he had come back to work too soon, and they all knew they would have done exactly the same thing if it had been them. With this in mind, the others left him to grimace into his hands while Morgan, Emily and Reid stared worriedly at him. Grace made her way back to the seat beside Rossi, mentally running through the alternative explanations for the presence of a dead man's semen turning up at a crime scene a year after he was dead, in her mind.

Mildly worried for her own sanity, she wondered when she had become someone for whom an evil twin scenario was weirder than the possibility of animated corpses.

"Evil twin?" Rossi asked, as she sat down.

"I know," she said, "but far be it for me pretend I understand the workings of Reid's brain."

"You defended him," Rossi pointed out.

Grace narrowed her eyes at him, suddenly aware that she was being profiled. "And?"

He held her gaze for a moment before looking away. Grace frowned. He had what would best be described as a knowing smile on his face, which (while not an unfamiliar resident on Rossi's face) was an unusual thing to be directed at her.

She blushed, suddenly and apparently without cause.

Noticing this, Rossi grinned. "Nothing," he said innocently.

"It better be," she shot back, mock seriously, and both of them chuckled.

She busied herself with her files, wondering why her cheeks felt so pink.


	2. Town Under Siege

**Essential listening: Will the Guns Come Out? by Hanni El Kanib**

 **0o0**

"Before Cortland Ryan, this town hadn't seen a homicide in over thirty years," said Sheriff Merrill Dobson, as he led Hotch, Reid and Grace to Delilah Grennan's house. "He didn't just kill those six women," he added sadly. "He killed a way of life. Now this thing's got people thinking he's come back."

The sheriff led them up the front steps of the well-tended house, ducking to avoid the roses that were coming away from the trellis on the porch. He was a tall, straight-talking man who Grace thought might have had an early career in the armed forces before moving to law enforcement. His eyes were striking and intelligent, and he radiated an outward air of calm that must go a long way towards keeping his town happy and peaceful.

That calm was severely damaged today. The sheriff was obviously rattled; he must have been a deputy when the first few victims started turning up. The arrival of this new body – and under such strange circumstances – appeared to be doing a number on him.

Grace eyed the line of spectators and cops on the far side of the crime scene tape. It appeared to be doing a number on the locals, too – and small wonder. She followed the boys inside, frowning slightly as her eyes adjusted to the drop in light. They'd left the house more or less how they had found it, for forensics, though Delilah herself had now been removed, so most of the curtains were still drawn, making the inside of the house feel dim and close compared to the warm spring sunshine outside.

"They don't really think that, do they? Reid asked.

"I guess when you've been scared by somethin' – I mean really scared – that fear's in you forever," the sheriff mused.

"Like the Moors Murderers, or Peter Sutcliffe," Grace mused, looking around the pleasant, cosy looking home.

"Let's stick to the facts," said Hotch. "Were there signs of forced entry?"

"None that we could find," Sheriff Dobson told them. "But whoever killed Delilah Grennan opened up every window in this house before he left."

Spencer frowned at the nearest window and went to take a closer look. "That's a signature from the previous murders," he said.

"You know," Grace reflected, peering at the one in the kitchen. "People used to open the windows and doors in their houses when someone died, so their soul could get out."

 _They also did it so it didn't stay in the house, particularly people who had been murdered, or died badly,_ she thought. _Spirits with grudges don't make the best housemates._

"A detail we never released to the public," said the sheriff pointedly.

"And it came out at the trial?" Hotch double checked.

"No sir, prosecution had Ryan nailed nine ways to Sunday," Dobson told him. "Didn't need it. So I'm hard pressed to know how this copycat knew about those windows."

Everyone paused, took stock and thought for a moment.

"The man we're looking for is most likely a fan," Hotch explained, moving through the house, "who exhaustively studied the first killings and used them to form his own murder fantasies."

They paused on the threshold of the bedroom, where the forensic techs were still processing the room. Grace stared sadly at the bloodstained bedclothes, wishing there was something she could do for the woman's echo, still weeping in the corner of the room. Maybe she would move on when her murder was solved, maybe she wouldn't. Most ghosts either faded helplessly over time, or chose to remain – if they were intelligent haunts rather than residual. There was no middle ground. This one looked like it might turn into the latter, constantly reliving the horror of her last few moments.

She sighed and moved on. While she could, technically, exorcise a spirit, she was always reluctant to do it. People had to move on of their own volition – it wasn't really her place to tell them when or how that should be, unless they were hurting someone, or specifically asked for her help.

"He knows this case as well as us. Better, maybe, if he had actual contact with Ryan while he was incarcerated," Reid told Sheriff Dobson, as Hotch returned from his cursory prowl around the crime scene.

"We sent one of our agents to Hawkesville Prison to look into it," said the unit chief.

"And the semen?" the sheriff asked.

"Smuggled out of the prison, kept on ice," Hotch guessed; Grace watched the sheriff's expression change to one of revulsion. "Brought out on the anniversary of the execution."

"There's an entire cottage industry based on serial killer effects and memorabilia," Reid explained. "You can find absolutely anything, if you know the right people."

"The question is, is this a one-time commemoration, or is it just the beginning?" said Hotch, thoughtfully.

Sheriff Dobson took this possibility rather well, Grace thought, given how bad a day he was already having. He stalked off to check on the officers around the perimeter, leaving the three agents to peruse their latest victim's life. There were jewellery-making supplies on the table in the dining area; a half-finished book propped open on the couch.

"What a damn waste," Grace murmured, as Spencer made his way to the poor woman's bedroom to have a look around.

"Can you see anything?" Hotch asked her, in a low voice.

Grace looked up at him, surprised. Usually he waited until they were well clear of the others before broaching the whole 'ghost' thing, but today he seemed more open about it.

"Er," she said, wondering whether she could attribute this to his recent brush with mortality, or the conversation Kate Joyner had forced upon them before her death. She caught his 'don't mess with me' expression and shook her head. "She's still here, if that's what you're asking," she told him. "But she won't speak to me. She's an echo – and fairly insensible with grief, if I'm honest."

Hotch looked around suddenly, as if expecting to see their victim's ghost. "Where?"

"In the bedroom."

 _Where she died._

"Show me."

Grace gaped at him, greatly taken aback.

"You can show me, right?"

"Well, yes," she said, guessing that Spencer wasn't the only one who had been doing some extra-curricular reading on the occult. "Are you sure? It's not a pretty sight."

He levelled the kind of stare at her that made career criminals wobble their way into incriminating themselves, so she shrugged and nodded. She led the way to Delilah Grennan's room, where Spencer was doing his staring-at-a-bloodstain-in-case-it-told-him-something routine. He looked up when they came in and met Grace's eyes; she glanced at Hotch, and Reid read in her expression that he needed to be elsewhere.

The frown he gave her on his way past told her she would have some explaining to do later on.

The forensic techs seemed to be done for the moment, so Hotch closed the door behind them.

"How does this work?" he asked.

Grace turned, hearing a note of fear in her boss's voice. "I can share the sight through touch, temporarily," she said. "You take my hand, and while contact is maintained you should be able to see."

"Should?"

"Doesn't always work." She shrugged. "Don't know why."

"Are there side effects?" he asked, sounding tenser than usual. "Headaches? Nosebleeds?"

"Nothing physical – well, there never has been," she qualified. "I think it's because the energy is being drawn from me, not you. You might get nightmares, but that's not because of the connection, that's because your mind will be more aware of the possibility of things being around you."

He nodded, grimly determined. "Do it."

Feeling that this was a very bad idea, Grace complied. It was very surreal indeed to hold Aaron Hotchner's hand; he tensed for a moment, and she realised his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He opened one, then another, and frowned, surprised that he couldn't see anything out of place.

"Listen," advised Grace, quietly. "You'll hear this one before you see her," she told him, and nodded towards the corner by the wardrobe, where Delilah Grennan's echo was sobbing.

She watched his face carefully, and saw the moment his eyes slid left, the skin around his eyes tightening as he reacted to the sound. Grace averted her eyes. The victim's heart-wrenching, keening cries were impossible to ignore, but neither of them could help her – not here, not now.

Breathing hard and far paler than before, Hotch cleared his throat, "Can we do anything for her?"

He was staring fixedly at the ghost of the woman in the corner now.

"Solve her murder," Grace responded, quietly.

"Will that be enough?"

"It's something," she said, with a shrug. "Sometimes it's enough, sometimes it's not. It's all we _can_ do."

He set his jaw and dropped her hand, apparently satisfied. "And you can see that all the time?"

Grace didn't answer, eyes still on the frightened young woman who was so scared she couldn't even see them. Hotch stared at her for a moment, then stalked out to the car without looking back. She followed him, sadly. Spencer, who was lurking in the living room, joined her by the front door. Together, they watched him leave.

"You showed him her ghost."

Her friend didn't sound surprised, just mildly curious.

"Mmm." Grace chewed the inside of her mouth.

"How'd he take it?" he asked, as their boss ducked under the crime scene tape, clearly keen to put as much distance between himself and their victim as possible.

"About how you'd expect. Silent and frownier than usual."

Spencer nodded. Grace felt him squeeze the fingers of her right hand – an acknowledgement, perhaps, of how much it had cost her to reveal so much to anyone else on their team, let alone their boss. Despite the fact they were standing in the middle of a crime scene, surrounded by cops and criminologists, she didn't feel the slightest inclination to let go.

"He's not better yet, is he? From New York, I mean." he said, in an undertone.

 _Not by a long shot_.

Grace sighed and tightened her grip on Spencer's hand. "No, but neither were we."

They shared a grim smile before starting down the front steps and out into the yard, their hands falling naturally apart.

0o0

The newspaper, rather sensibly, had contacted the Sheriff's Office as soon as the letter had come in, and had sworn its staff to secrecy. Most of the people who worked on the paper lived in Lower Canaan, after all, and the last thing any of them needed right now was a panic – though this was already beginning to develop as more people learned of Delilah Grennan's murder, despite the best efforts of local law enforcement and the press.

It was written on yellow, lined A5 notepaper in black ink, using fairly expressive handwriting. An odd choice for correspondence, Grace thought, but then there wasn't much about this case that was normal.

"'I give you a legacy. A breath of life from the angel maker himself'" Reid read aloud. "'Those who prayed to forget me will one day see my face and shrink in fear.'"

"This is the last thing people need right now," Sheriff Dobson remarked.

"That's exactly what he wants," said Grace. "It's a power play. He gets off on the fear."

"Ryan?" the Sheriff asked, shocked that she would suggest it.

"No – the unsub," she said, surprised that he would feel the need to ask. The letter must have hit him harder than she'd thought. "The copycat. Even if this is for their hero, they're getting off on the fear in the town."

"Reid, how's it compare with the original correspondence?" Morgan asked.

"They share some compelling characteristics," Reid said, frowning down at this new letter and a copy of one Ryan had written to one of his fans. "I'd obviously like to look at it under magnification with a better light."

"Best guess, Reid?" Hotch prompted.

He quirked his eyebrows, his eyes never leaving the pages in front of him. "I'd say it's authentic."

Glancing at it, Grace had to agree – though she was no expert on handwriting, like Reid. They even looked like they were on the same notepaper. One by one, everyone crowded around the desk, wanting to confirm this conclusion for themselves.

"How can this letter be authentic if the guy's been dead for a year?" the Sheriff asked.

"It could be an elaborate forgery," Hotch suggested, but none of them really believed that.

"Or it could be the genuine article, just written before his death," said Reid.

"Well, mail here isn't _that_ slow," the sheriff scoffed.

"Released through an intermediary," Reid qualified.

Sheriff Dobson frowned. "You mean the copycat?"

Reid nodded.

"The very fact that it's authentic gives it more power," Grace mused.

"We're goin' over the prison visitor logs to check who had multiple visits with Ryan," Morgan told him. "Try to narrow a suspect pool."

They looked up as the main door opened, admitting a blonde, middle aged woman, obviously in some distress.

"Sela? What are you doing here?" the sheriff asked, immediately breaking away and hurrying over to her.

"Is it true? There's a letter?" she asked, all her focus instantly on Dobson.

You could feel the fear radiating from her, quite well contained, but very much there. Dobson stood close to her, but not improperly so – the way you would with someone who was slightly more than a friend. Grace wondered whether there might be some romantic connection between the two of them; she obviously trusted him completely.

"How did you know?" the sheriff asked.

"You didn't really think you could keep that quiet around here?" she countered.

"The letter's not from him," he told her. "Not the way people might be saying."

Grace winced.

"What does that mean?" she asked, reading something in his expression.

"It – uh –" he looked at Hotch, not sure of what he could say.

"It means we think he has someone on the outside – a friend," Hotch told Sela, firmly.

"What if you're wrong?" she asked, and turned back to the sheriff. "What if…"

"There's no such thing as ghosts, Sela," said Sheriff Dobson.

Grace felt Spencer's eyes on her and shook her head, almost imperceptibly. She understood his question well enough, but this wasn't the time or place to talk about it

"I'm not talking about a ghost," said Sela. "I'm talking about those rumours about the execution, how there were problems, how it didn't work right."

Hotch, who had been moving slowly closer to the woman as she spoke, addressed her directly. "What are you suggesting?"

"What if he's still out there?"

Grace saw the moment when Sheriff Dobson met Hotch's eyes and shook his head – and so did Sela.

"Don't do that," she admonished him, correctly interpreting the 'don't say anything, she's my friend, but she's crazy' look. "You think I'm the only one? Look outside."

They followed her gaze to the Sheriff's Office carpark, which was swarming with frightened citizens.

"They want proof that he's dead."

"If we exhume him it'll feed the hysteria, which will fuel the copycat's confidence," said Hotch, deliberately including her. "Make him more dangerous."

"And if he's not there?" Sela asked, fiercely.

"Then that will feed the hysteria even more."

Sela gave him a scathing look, but allowed Sheriff Dobson to lead her back towards the door, assuring her that they were doing everything they could and that the creep they'd executed was as dead as he possibly could be.

"Think they'll dig him up?" Morgan asked, as Hotch returned to the table.

Hotch just shook his head, telling them that he felt that it was a very bad idea, but that he suspected the sheriff would do it anyway.

"I think we'll have to," said Grace, after Morgan moved away to call Garcia. "Dig him up, I mean. Just to be sure."

"Be sure about what?" Reid asked, puzzled.

Grace coughed. "To be sure he hasn't gone walking."

There was a moment where Reid and Hotch eyed one another, each man surprised that she would broach this subject in front of the other, and each beginning to realise that the other knew more about her clandestine talents than they had supposed.

"I thought you said a revenant was unlikely," said Hotch, breaking the suddenly tense silence.

Grace looked up in time to see Reid's eyes widen, and then rapidly travel to her face. She nodded and tilted her head to one side, wincing, as he stared between her and their boss. "Unlikely doesn't mean impossible."

"Are you seriously suggesting someone has raised Ryan from the dead so he can continue to rape and murder women?" Reid asked, his expression plainly saying, _'and you looked at me like I was crazy when I talked about 'eviller' twins'_.

Grace watched Hotch's face for a moment before answering, waiting to see if he'd interrupt. He did not, simply subjecting her and Reid to an inscrutable look. Grace chewed the inside of her mouth.

"No," she said, finally, and both men relaxed. "I don't think a revenant could successfully rape anyone." She took out her phone as they gaped at her, their mouths forming perfect 'o's. "I've got to call my friend back…"

"But it could commit murder?" Hotch asked, seriously enough to earn himself another incredulous look from Reid.

"Not of its own volition," said Grace, wincing again. "Little of the mind remains, after…" She frowned and looked down at her phone. "But it might explain the hammer. They're generally weaker than they were before."

"Generally?" Hotch demanded, at exactly the same time as Reid exclaimed, " _They?_ "

She shook her head. "Don't let it get in the way of the profile," she advised. "As I said, it's unlikely. I've got to call Arnold."

0o0

Quiet corners were at a bit of a premium in the Lower Canaan Sheriff's Office right now, so Grace ended up placing her call in a cramped supply cupboard. She turned over an empty fire bucket and waited for her old friend to pick up. A quick glance at the pocket watch told her, taking in account the time difference, Arnold would more than likely still be at work, and therefore more disposed to talk about weird stuff than he would be on the tube.

He picked up on the fourth ring. "Must be desperate if you've called me back," said Doctor Arnold Li, briskly. His voice was distorted slightly, which told her he had her on speaker phone. "Had four corpses today already, or I'd have beat you to it."

"No worries, figured you were busy. Anything good?" Grace asked, making circles in the dust with the toe of her boot.

"This chap's a hit and run," said Arnold, and Grace immediately pictured him waving one of the poor soul's organs around at the end of a pair of forceps. "Did have an unusual one this morning. Totally drained of blood. Bit of a puzzler."

"Puncture wounds?" Grace asked, intrigued.

"None I could find, and I looked everywhere," he told her.

Grace, who had worked with Arnold for years, believed him. "Any bruises or weird marks?"

"None. Just a clean, unmarked, slightly shrivelled, very pale corpse."

"What's the Guv' say?"

"Not a lot – you know him," Arnold chuckled. "Just 'hmmed' a bit and grumbled about paperwork."

Grace smiled. "Which means he's got a good idea what it'll be and doesn't like it."

"He misses you, you know," said Arnold. There was the sound of something squelching at the other end, and Grace tried very hard not to imagine what it was. "We all do."

"You're just a big old softie, aren't you?" she joked.

"Don't tell anyone," he said tolerantly. "Now, why do you need to know about the sexual antics of the recently deceased?"

Resisting the temptation to laugh (you had to, sometimes, or you'd go nuts), she outlined the particulars of the case.

"Well…" Arnold began, thoughtfully. "My first instinct would be to say no. Ejaculation – and any kind of penetrative turgidity – would require blood flow, and that's something revenants and other undead beasties tend not to have. Also, it depends how long the revenant has been dead – organ degeneration is slower in revenants, but after a year your murderous corpse would be falling to bits. The only exception is the League of Archivists, but it sounds like your ex-murderer is too lately dead for that."

"Hmm," said Grace, and Arnold chuckled.

"I know that 'hmm'."

"Could he have been refrigerated first and then reanimated?"

Arnold made a negative sort of 'nnnn' noise. "Possible, but freezing destroys cells, so they'd degenerate even faster when they defrosted. Would be good for a couple of days – a week, tops."

Grace ran a hand through her hair, considering. "We have only had one new murder," she said.

"But the evidence of rape…"

"Yeah," said Grace, thinking back to the autopsy report. "Bruising, tearing, fluid – the works."

"Then it's very unlikely," he decided, sounding certain. "Regular human with regular semen samples. Possibly a foreign object, if there was no other DNA."

Certain was good. Certain meant nothing undead.

She let out a breath, relieved. "Good. I fucking hate zombies."

Doctor Li laughed.

"Thanks."

"Not a problem, Grace. It's always good to hear from you!"

Grace smiled. "Give my love to them as wants it!"

"Will do."

She heard him move to turn the phone off with his elbow. "Arnold?"

"Yes?"

"Your odd corpse. Check the ear."

0o0

Reid was hunched over a table strewn with unsettling correspondence when she got back, alone save the deputy manning the front desk.

"Where is everyone?" she asked, and he looked up, blinking.

Clearly she had interrupted a thought.

"They – uh – went to exhume the body," he said.

"Hotch couldn't dissuade them?"

"No…" he frowned and moved closer, in case the lone deputy overheard. "So – uh – what did your friend say?"

"Living human," she told him, and he looked about as relieved as she felt. "The organs break down too fast."

"That's… gross," he said, pulling a face.

"Yeah. Anything coming up from the letters?" she asked.

"Lots of fans," he said, gesturing at the paperwork. "Most of them female. He changes his writing voice with each one."

"A chameleon, then," Grace remarked, reading the nearest page. She pulled a face. "I've never understood why some people are so drawn to these creeps."

"Lack of self-confidence," said Reid, at once. "A need for a strong male role model –"

"Oh, I know all that," Grace interrupted, waving a hand. "I _know_ why, I just don't get it. I mean, there's a big difference between falling for someone who later turns out to be evil, but knowing what someone's done first, and _still_ being attracted to them?" She shook her head. "I just don't get it."

"I guess he gives them something they don't have," Reid suggested.

"Hmm," snorted Grace. "I can just see it now on match dot com: single female, looking for vicious bastard. Previous corpses appreciated. Sense of humour not required."

She sounded bitter, and she knew it. The words tasted sour in her mouth and Reid was watching her now, his head tilted slightly to side.

"He can be quite charming," he said, and though she knew that this was an experiment – an attempt to get a reaction, puzzled as he was at her discontent – she couldn't help but scoff.

"That's not charm," she snorted. "Morgan's charming – Rossi's charming. That's just manipulation wearing party clothes."

There was silence for a moment, and it occurred to Grace that she was giving something away with this. She glowered at the pages on the table, not meeting Reid's eyes.

"Grace…"

He was closer now, hesitating on the edge of her personal space. Uncomfortable, she made herself look at him, and saw the worry in his warm, brown eyes – and the fondness.

 _Don't ask,_ she thought. _I can't tell you. You're too sweet, and I don't want you to hate me._

Reid closed his mouth, almost as if she had spoken aloud. He held his ground for a moment, searching her face, then dropped his gaze.

"Okay," he said softly, nodding. He shifted his attention back to the letters. "I'm sorting them by recipient – give me a hand?"

"Sure." She took the seat beside him, grateful that he could read her so well, and that he had recognised when not to push. And that he hadn't taken it personally. "What about ones without names?"

He leaned over the back of her chair, and she was suddenly aware of how close he was. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

"Date and month," he told her, pointing out the piles. "Oh –" He pulled out his phone, which had started buzzing. "Hey Prentiss, what's up?"

His mind still half on Ryan's correspondence, he had been resting one hand on the table, but now he straightened up, gasping. Grace looked up, tensing for trouble.

"You cannot be serious," he said flatly, looking deeply troubled. "Okay…"

He hung up, looking pale; he met Grace's eyes. "They finished the exhumation," he told her, and Grace's heart began to sink. "Ryan wasn't in there."


	3. Cocoa Oasis

**Essential listening: Devotion, by Ellie Goulding**

 **0o0**

The absence of Cortland Ryan from his year-long grave had shaken them all. Hotch had marched back in, one hand pressed against his ear, and immediately taken Grace to one side to hear Arnold's verdict. Happy to dismiss any supernatural element from an already complex case, he had grumpily allowed Prentiss to frogmarch him off to a seven-eleven for more painkillers.

Grace supposed that the exhumation had been unexpectedly loud.

He looked a little better when they came back, and they had set about trying to mollify those members of the Sheriff's Office who were more suggestable. Morgan and Rossi had appeared after a while, having gone to interview the doctor who oversaw Ryan's execution. The rumours that all had not gone well had been compounded by the lack of a body, and they needed to be sure. Prentiss, JJ and Reid had been despatched to the hotel to make sure their bookings weren't lost, and to get a head-start on sleeping (though Reid had taken the box of copied letters with him).

"Dr Hayden said he 'went hard'," Rossi told them, as Morgan collared a deputy and went off to find a TV and DVD player. "The catheter that delivered the drugs slipped out." He shook his head, an ugly expression on his face. "Took him an hour to die – but he _was_ dead."

"I can't say I'm sorry to hear that," the sheriff mused, and Grace murmured her agreement.

Although she didn't agree with the death penalty, there were a few people for whom she was tempted to make an exception. Cortland Bryce Ryan was once of them.

"Doctor Hayden said he made a lot of noise, in the weeks leadin' up to his death, about comin' back," said Morgan, as he and the deputy wheeled out an old CRT on a trolley. "We picked this up from the prison."

The DVD was a record of Ryan's last minutes – presumably including his death, for purposes of certification, but they didn't really need to see that. Doctor Hayden had been badly traumatised by the execution, enough that it put any question of veracity out of mind. They fast forwarded while Ryan was strapped to the table and the catheter was secured.

It was the first execution Grace had ever witnessed, and even at high speed it left a bad taste in her mouth. She lurked behind Hotch and Sheriff Dobson, who had seated themselves on the table, and averted her eyes until they got to his 'famous' last words. These – fortunately – had not been released to the press.

"You may think you have seen the last of me, but death cannot take me from you," he growled at the camera, levelling an intense, unsettling stare at any who were watching. He was obviously frightened, and obviously convinced of his own, god-like qualities. "I will be born again." He gave a sharp nod. "Today, you make me a legend."

Hotch paused the DVD. They didn't need to see the rest.

"You know," Grace remarked, "I get the whole recording last words thing, but sometimes I think it just panders to their sense of power. Giving them a pulpit so they can grandstand, and months to come up with their sinister last words."

"Always had a flair for the dramatic," the sheriff grumbled.

"Set the stage perfectly," Rossi observed. "A latter-day Lazarus, returning to deliver hell on Earth."

"We need to debunk this, or the whole town's going to panic," said Hotch.

"Little late for that," said Sheriff Dobson, ruefully.

Grace felt for him. He obviously felt keenly responsible for that.

"The grave robbing we can explain," Rossi told him. "Has to be a fan."

"You think the same person that did the copycat murder took Ryan's body?" Sheriff Dobson exclaimed, horrified.

"It's possible," Hotch told him. "He had to have help."

Rossi agreed. "Someone on the inside."

Hotch nodded.

"I suppose you're gonna tell me there's a cottage industry for that, too?" the sheriff said.

"Sad to say," Grace told him, as he shook his head in disgust. "One thing you learn from this job – there will always be somebody willing to push the boat out and do something even creepier than you can imagine."

0o0

They had called it a night around eleven, though it was unlikely that anyone in Lower Canaan would be sleeping that well. The sheriff and his officers were doing their best to keep Ryan's disappearance from the public, but there was only so much they could do. First thing in the morning, people were going to notice that the grave had been disturbed and then there would be questions.

The town was about one incident away from total hysteria, and finding out that an executed serial killer had gone walk about might well be the spark that set everything off.

Still, at least her conversation with Arnold meant that she could dismiss the possibility that he'd climbed out of it himself.

After dinner, the team had gone over and over the old files, trying to find any reference to a partner or accomplice, in case the initial profile had been wrong, but they hadn't found anything. Tomorrow they would begin the daunting task of ruling out as many of the numerous fans who visited Ryan throughout his nine year incarceration. Tonight, Rossi had told them to get some sleep, "Even if you have to swallow a handful of Ambien."

It had escaped no one's notice that Hotch hadn't even commented, too wrapped up with whatever was going on in his eardrums. Grace had chosen to interpret this as a positive sign – it was good to know that he felt he could trust them to pick up the slack when his attention was snatched away.

She was more than ready for bed when she stepped out of the shower, her mind still going over the recent murder, and then discovered that she had run out of both tea _and_ hot chocolate. This predicament rather derailed her train of thought, so she grumbled her way into her pyjamas and an old jumper (the nights were chilly in Lower Canaan at this time of year). Since the town was so small, the hotel wasn't huge, and JJ had told her that the room service wasn't all that great.

She was just debating throwing her shoes on and running out to the nearest seven-eleven when someone knocked on her door. Glancing at the time (past midnight now) she opened it to find a slightly dishevelled Spencer Reid lurking in the corridor, wearing his pyjamas and a thoughtful expression.

"Revenants?" he asked, his head tilted to one side.

Grace sighed, though if she were honest she didn't mind his sudden, barefoot appearance all that much. "You'd better come in."

"Did I wake you?" he asked, as she closed the door.

"I was just contemplating heading out, actually," she said, laughing at his expression. "I was going to put shoes on, I promise."

"Where to?"

"Corner shop – see if they had any hot chocolate."

"Oh," he said, and laughed. "I – uh – I'm glad I caught you then." He held up a jar of cocoa. "I decided to take your lead and start bringing decent drinks with me. I – uh – figured you might want some."

"Excellent!" Grace said, and meant it.

She cleared her towels off the bed and put them in the bathroom as Spencer made them both mugs of hot cocoa. He settled on the enormous beige couch that every hotel room in America seemed to be equipped with and hugged his knees, waiting for his drink to cool down. Grace joined him, mirroring his posture. With their pyjamas and the cocoa, and only the bedside lamp on, it felt oddly like a sleepover.

"So, revenants," Grace prompted, thinking that this conversation would have been perfectly at home at one of the sleepovers with her school friends, who (like her) had been a delightfully odd and inquisitive bunch.

"Yeah," Spencer said, frowning and licking his lips. "I'm gonna assume, based on what you said earlier, that there's a precedent."

"Yes," Grace nodded, letting out a long stream of breath. "It's part of why I'm not overly fond of the Egyptian section of the British Museum. Not that the walkers came from there, or anything. They just remind me."

"Walkers?" he noted. "Plural."

Grace grimaced. "Yeah." She scrubbed a hand over her face. "Okay, so the first time I met a zombie I was visiting _The Darkhouse_ with the Guv," said Grace. She continued quickly, before Spencer could ask about _The Darkhouse_ and get the conversation derailed, "There's an archive down there, staffed by a group of long-term revenants. They're very old, and more intelligent than most. They're pretty desiccated, and they don't talk, but they seem to remember everything about the archive - they always find what you need. Actually they're more like _Hammer Horror_ mummies than zombies, but with fewer bandages…"

"Mummies are real too?" Spencer asked, more horrified than fearful.

"After a fashion, yes – they're really just another kind of revenant, and rare, outside of Egypt. Charlie never told me where they came from, but I think they must have turned up in England with 'Mummy Pettigrew' and the other Egyptian tomb raiders, and been raised up by some barmy nineteenth century witch or wizard who didn't like work. I don't think they started out in the archive, but they always gravitate back there if someone tries to remove or reassign them."

There was a brief silence as Reid digested this. "O-kay," he said slowly, "I have several questions about that."

"Shoot."

"Revenants… they're Haitian voodoo, right? Are they a kind of zombie?"

"Yes. More the technical term – the Hollywood kind of zombie doesn't really exist. The ones I've seen are either fairly stupid and long lasting, or wickedly intelligent and only taking up temporary residency in a convenient host."

"I thought so," he said. "How are they made?"

"Various methods," she said dismissively. She didn't particularly want to get into a deep theoretical discussion if she could help it, or they'd be talking until dawn.

"Voodoo?"

"Some of them, though most magical traditions have some form of necromancy," she said, running a hand through her still-wet hair. "All you really need is a recipe, strong enough belief and strong enough talent. It takes practice and determination, but pretty much anyone could do it."

"If they were sufficiently crazy," Reid qualified, and Grace laughed.

"Yeah, there is that distinction."

He nodded again, and frowned, thinking back. "Temporary residency?"

"Only very powerful deceased practitioners can do that," she told him. "Or the likes of an elemental, or Baron Samedi."

Spencer gaped at her; clearly, he'd heard of _him_. "Baron – _he's_ real?"

Grace nodded. "Or something like him." She smiled slightly. "A lot of things are more real than you might expect, if you know where and how to look."

Spencer stared at her for a moment, then chuckled. "Two years ago, I wouldn't have believed _you_ were real."

"I shall take that as a compliment," she warned him playfully.

"As it was very much intended."

They smiled at one another for a moment.

Grace looked down, biting her lip. There was something electrifying about how their bare feet were almost touching. Deciding it would be best if she could distract herself from this sudden realisation, Grace picked up her mug of cocoa and cradled it in her hands. Spencer, too, seemed to be trying to find things to do with his hands. He played idly with the hem of his pyjama bottoms, which had frayed slightly through wear, and Grace wondered whether he was just as aware of this strange energy as she was.

"Um… _The Darkhouse_?"

"It used to be a pub in the financial district of London. Now it's a sort of museum and archive, in the hands of several private collectors," she explained, blowing on her hot chocolate to cool it. "Most people think it was demolished before the war."

"But it wasn't?"

"No." She grinned. "It… goes unnoticed."

He waited for her to expand her explanation, but Grace stayed quiet, sipping her drink. The chocolate was warm and right on the edge of being bitter; just right. Realising that further elucidation on this subject would be unforthcoming, Reid reached for his own mug.

"I'll let you look up Mummy Pettigrew on your own time," she smirked, after a moment.

Reid chuckled again. "Oh, I know all about him. He – uh – imported hundreds of mummies into England in the first half of the nineteenth century and unwrapped them for large crowds to observe."

"Large, paying crowds," Grace amended.

"Yeah." His smile faded and he frowned again. "Grace, how much does Hotch know? About you, I mean – and what you can do?"

Grace bit her lip, hesitating, and Spencer continued, "I – I wouldn't feel comfortable lying to him."

"And I would never ask you to," she assured him.

He nodded, apparently comforted, and shuffled marginally closer.

"He knows I can see ghosts and he knows that maybe some things are a little more occult than he might expect them to be – and now he knows about revenants, and that I used to work with a Medical Examiner who doesn't think questions about the reproductive organs of zombies are particularly weird," she told him. "But no more than that."

Spencer coughed, having taken a sip of his cocoa at an inopportune moment. "How much more _is_ there?" he gasped, when he had recovered a little.

Grace frowned at her knees. "A whole other world," she said.

Even though he always seemed to come back, each mention of this other world – particularly if he witnessed something for himself – pushed Spencer away for a while. It was a part of how they functioned as friends, a sort of cycle of coming together and moving apart; rather like a dance. Ordinarily, Grace would have been fine with him pulling away for a while, but for some reason tonight the idea filled her with discomfort.

Fortunately, he didn't seem to want to back off at all.

"Like your… ability to make dead flowers recover and – doors creak open of their own accord?" he asked, and she nodded. "And cell phones melt?"

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, puzzled; she tilted her head to ask the question.

"The unsub – in New York," he explained. "There's no way he stamped on that cell phone."

Grace frowned. She hadn't even thought about it at the time – and after, there had been other things on her mind – but now he mentioned it, the mobile that had been the trigger for the bomb had seemed a little too damaged.

 _It must have happened when he attacked me in the lift,_ she thought.

"I didn't know I'd done that," she admitted. "Sometimes it can get a bit out of hand when you're acting on instinct."

Spencer narrowed his eyes at her, but he didn't press her, for which she was grateful. It was late, and she was tired. They lapsed into a weary, mutual silence that lasted for several minutes.

"What was the other time?" he asked, eventually.

"Hmm?"

"You said the 'first time' you came across revenants was at ' _The Darkhouse_ '," he reminded her. "What was the other time?"

"Oh, that," she said, pulling a face. "Caught a serial killer in Romford in 2002 who was murdering women and then reanimating their corpses to do his housework and provide sexual favours."

Spencer made a noise of intense disgust.

"You are not wrong," Grace observed.

"Did they know?" Spencer asked, aghast. "I mean, that they were – what they were?"

Grace nodded unhappily. "I don't know how much they knew – the brain starts breaking down very quickly after death – but they had an awareness." She shivered, despite the jumper and the cocoa. "Just before Lightfoot destroyed the amulet that was prolonging them, they all turned towards him. I think they knew what he was about to do. They looked so…" She cast her eyes across the room, searching for the words to express the depth of the feeling they had so eloquently and silently broadcast. "Relieved."

Reid bit his lip, obviously discomfited, then, "Wait, 2002? Was that the James Lee Adams case?" he asked suddenly, and she nodded. "He raped and murdered six women in East London – uh – called them his 'novices'?"

"That's him," said Grace, grimly.

"I don't remember anything about zombies!"

"Would you publicise that, if you were in the Met?" Grace asked him, a sardonic tone to her voice. "Even the tabloids wouldn't have touched a story like that. No, as tends to happen in cases like that, the – er – less likely details were kept away from the press. And the Crown Prosecution Service."

Spencer's eyebrows, which, for the past five minutes, had been more or less constantly obscured by his shorter, tousled fringe, began to make their way slowly back to their more usual positions.

"And it's not in your arrest record, either," he guessed. "Because otherwise Hotch and Gideon wouldn't have looked twice at you."

"No," she agreed sadly. "But then there's not a great deal of weirdness in it. The Met tries to keep that sort of thing out of arrest records. Plus, the rest of my files were substantially damaged by an unknown person or persons," she told him, and he raised his eyebrows again, surprised. "Probably Charlie Lightfoot, given how bad a job was made of it. He's not good at paperwork," she added, on his expression. "Or computers. In that respect, you'd probably get on."

"Oh."

Spencer fiddled with the seam next to his left knee, deep in thought. Grace sipped her cocoa, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm – uh – guessing your – um – your son wasn't mentioned," he observed, not meeting her eyes.

"No," she said heavily. "Though Dad was."

She looked up when she felt his hand close around hers.

"I won't tell them," he said, with a kind of intensity that made her believe him.

"I know, love." Grace rubbed her thumb over the tender part of the back of his hand, between the thumb and forefinger. "I know you won't."

Spencer laced their fingers together, both their arms resting on the back of the sofa.

"You – uh – you don't like them much, do you?" he asked, in a clumsy attempt to move the conversation on.

"Zombies?" Grace asked, appreciating the attempt, if not the execution. "No. They creep me the fuck out."

"But not ghosts?"

"Depends on the ghost," she said fairly, setting her empty cup on the table. "There's the same variety as you get with people, only they're dead. Although, no matter how used you are to seeing them, some really do make you jump."

Spencer smiled slightly and she wondered if he was remembering his first sighting of a spirit, back in Mary Breitkopf's sepulchral apartment. She pulled off her jumper, feeling much warmer than before, and glad of her friend's gentle presence. She hated sleeping in it, anyway.

"Tch-yeah, I can imagine," he reflected, then yawned, loudly, which immediately set Grace off too.

She was deliciously drowsy now, warmed by the cocoa and the company, and the candour of the conversation (if not the topic). She rested her head against the back of the sofa, reasoning that her neck could do with a break.

"Where d'you think Ryan's body is?" Spencer mumbled sleepily, putting his mug down. "Um – assuming he's not a reven-revenant." He yawned again.

"If the unsub has him, I'd hate to speculate."

"Mmm."

"I just hope he's intending to keep the ghoulish thing to himself and not leave it somewhere conspicuous to freak people out."

"You and your hobbies," Spencer muttered, sounding like he was already half-asleep.

Grace would have checked, but having her eyes closed seemed like a far more enticing and comfortable option at that moment. She merely 'hmphed' instead.

She awoke, suddenly, a little while later, when her foot slid off the edge of the sofa. Spencer was completely out of it, and at some point both of them had begun to sprawl across the couch, their legs tangling together somewhere in the middle.

"Hey," she murmured, and shook his shoulder. "Spencer…"

He went to say something, but Grace couldn't begin to guess what it was, since it came out as, "Whrzl."

"Come on," she said, shaking his shoulder again, ignoring how adorable he looked when he was sleeping.

Without really realising she was doing, she brushed the hair that had fallen across his face back behind his ear. His eyes still firmly shut, Spencer frowned and mumbled something about going back to his own room.

"Don't be silly," she told him, and pulled him up off the sofa.

He stood for a moment, swaying slightly and rubbing his eyes as if the low light hurt them, then put up no resistance at all when Grace steered him over to the bed. They both climbed in, half-asleep and utterly oblivious to why they shouldn't do that, or any kind of embarrassment about it, curling up together contentedly beneath the covers. Drowsy as she was, Grace turned the light off without moving and felt Spencer chuckle in the close, private cave that had formed between them under the duvet.

"'S my wicked witch," he mumbled; Grace poked him half-heartedly in the chest.

"I'm no one's witch," she muttered, half-asleep and unwilling to deny being 'wicked'. "I'm my own."

"Mmm, yeah," Spencer agreed, and if either of them had been slightly more awake, he probably wouldn't have said it. "But it'd be nice if you could be both."

0o0

Spencer fiddled with his coffee mug, watching Grace talking to Emily out of the corner of his eye. While he knew he ought to have his mind on the profile, right now they were waiting for the nervous local police to gather, which was taking some time, because _they_ were waiting for the nervous local residents to calm down a bit. This had given the team a fifteen minute breathing space, which wasn't quite enough time to do any more to the case, so all of them were using it differently.

Hotch had gone to find a quiet room for a little while, which probably meant that his ears were worse than the day before. Rossi was reviewing the footage from the execution again. Morgan was on his cell with Garcia, flirting easily and probably making her laugh. Emily and Grace were talking about charm and men who didn't have it (as a probable extension of the perplexing conversation he and Grace had had the previous evening), and Spencer was watching Grace.

He hadn't set out to, but he hadn't set out to fall asleep with her last night, either.

It had come as quite a surprise to wake up with a beautiful madwoman curled up beside him (even though really, this was the third time in two months), but even more surprising had been the affectionate smile that had travelled slowly across her face when she woke up and realised he was there, and the way she had immediately snuggled closer. Still sleepy enough not to care that this ought to be embarrassing, Spencer had taken the opportunity while it was there and wrapped his arms around her, dozing contentedly until Grace's alarm had gone off and forced them the rest of the way to wakefulness.

He swirled the dregs of coffee around his cup, contemplatively.

There _had_ been some embarrassment then, and more as he had rather furtively made his way back to his own room, but it wasn't as if they hadn't slept in the same place before. It wasn't even as if they hadn't shared a bed before – or gone even further than that, fuelled by alcohol, Dilaudid and a fair amount of straightforward, human lust. But this time, as he crept back to his room, praying that none of the rest of their team were up and about that early, it felt like something between them had changed.

Since Grace's arrival at the BAU she had become a very large part of Spencer's life, and he knew – he _knew_ – that he felt more for her than he probably should. It was far more, now, than a crush, and while he had flirted with the idea of trying not to like her as much as he did, it hadn't worked. She was just too much herself for that, and (it had to be said) too attractive. Okay, all the women he worked with were beautiful – they all regularly turned heads – but for Spencer, there was something about Grace that set her apart.

Maybe, if he didn't spend most of each day with her, he would be able to put her to the back of his mind, but with work and the closeness of their friendship he couldn't escape her dark, silly sense of humour, or the way she stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth when she concentrated, or the way she danced when she thought no one was looking, or the way she always seemed to show up when he needed her, and made him feel okay. He didn't even mind that she cursed like a sailor; she even smelled good.

For a long time, he had thought that his attraction to her was entirely one-sided (that one, memorable, New Orleans night, notwithstanding); something to accept, which would ultimately have to be suppressed and ignored, but lately…

Lately, Grace seemed to flirting with him.

Not all the time, not the way he had seen her flirt with Detective Berry in Silver Spring, but enough to make him wonder if maybe she was as interested in him as he was in her. At some point in the last few weeks – maybe in New York, maybe a little before – the frequent tactile moments where they took one another's hands or their legs tangled beneath the table on the jet had started to feel quite a bit more than platonic.

Very few adult friendships, as far as he knew, regularly consisted of cuddling, unless there was more going on than either party was prepared to admit.

Spencer wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't imagining it, but he wasn't about to stop her. He couldn't get enough of this new affection she seemed to be showing him, and he was cherishing a desperate hope that it wasn't an illusion. It _was_ different than before. For a long time she had been playful and friendly around him, and the things she said and did that made his heart flip had been purely accidental on her part. Now, however, he was pretty sure that she knew exactly what she was doing when she smirked up at him in the middle of a profile, or fell asleep on his shoulder on the jet, and he loved every second of it.

Really, he felt he ought to be more circumspect about falling for (because he had no other way of describing it now, safe inside his own mind) a colleague, but he really didn't want to be. To him, any place with Grace in it felt like home, like she somehow imbued a room with safety. He wondered whether her magic was part of why she was so impossibly interesting. He didn't know enough about her world, or her capabilities, to be able to fully define her. It was both maddening and insanely appealing – somewhat like the rest of her.

He glanced in her direction again. She was leaning against a filing cabinet with Prentiss, laughing about something. Spencer bit his lip. She had no idea how good she looked.

Before now, he had likened the effect of her proximity to remembering how to breathe, which was still true, nine times out of ten. More and more, however, she was having the opposite effect, like she stole all the air out of the room when she walked in.

Hoping that no one was paying attention, he ran his eyes appreciatively over her curves, remembering the feeling of her body under his hands.

He blushed, faintly, at that particular thought, and then went to open the door for JJ, who had been printing out large lists of the people who had visited Ryan during his nine year incarceration, or written to him, or sent him creepy little tributes.

After Morgan and Emily had discovered Ryan's memorabilia distributer, a prison guard Grace and Garcia were currently referring to as 'Skeezy Sid', murdered in a position and state of undress that had suggested he was expecting something other than a bullet to the head (and groin), the profile had changed somewhat. Ordinarily, this might have narrowed things down a little, but based on the sheer volume of women who had been obsessed with Cortland Ryan, this case was bucking the trend.

The rest of the team materialised while his back was turned, as the remaining members of the Lower Canaan Sheriff's Office trickled in from crowd control duty in the car park. Spencer took his place between Prentiss and Morgan, refocusing his mind on the case.

Hotch looked around the room, bringing everyone to order with his quiet sense of command. "There have been some strange happenings in this case, but I urge you not to abandon reason in search of the truth," he told them all sternly. Again, Spencer found his eyes flicking towards Grace, glad she had ruled out the supernatural element this time. "This is not the work of a ghost. It's not the work of a killer come back from the dead. This is the work of somebody who lives right here in Lower Canaan – and this person is a woman."

The officers and staff shifted, surprised.

"Her last victim, Sid Rutledge, he was the Angel Maker's mule," Morgan explained. "He smuggled items out of Hawkesville Prison, including the semen that was planted at the first crime scene."

"She killed Rutledge because he knew she was the copycat," Spencer said. "Also, because he was blackmailing her."

"We now know that Rutledge was transferred to Hawkesville from a female prison, in the wake of allegations that he was using his position to leverage sexual favours from inmates," Morgan continued.

"We think he did the same thing to our unsub," Hotch added. "In exchange for his silence, he wanted sex."

"Because she shot him in the junk, right?" one of the younger deputies in the room asked.

"Uh – that, and the fact that he took a PD5 inhibitor shortly before his murder," Spencer told him.

"A what?" Sheriff Dobson asked.

Morgan took pity on him: "Viagra."

There were a series of nods around the room while everyone digested this. It confirmed the tenor of Sid Rutledge's murder, somewhat.

"We're looking for a white woman in her mid-thirties, and she's highly intelligent," Hotch announced. "And she's not just a fan, she's a groupie."

"What's the difference?" the young deputy asked. "Ain't that kind of the same deal?"

"Not entirely," Grace explained. "Think of it as the difference between a fan and a superfan – someone whose attachment to the object of their admiration has progressed beyond the point of obsession. It's like an addiction. Owning merchandise or mementos is no longer enough, the only thing that makes the groupie feel 'normal' is to be with the object of their affection, both romantically and physically. They will do literally anything to get that proximity."

"Like diggin' a guy up?" the young deputy asked, aghast.

"Even that."

"Urgh."

"Now, she's not what you'd normally expect," Morgan told them. "More often than not they're attractive, well-educated, they're successful. Some are even married."

"Generally they fall into types," Spencer continued. "Some are reformers, they're on a mission to save or rescue these murderers. Often, this type of groupie's been raised in a repressive religious environment and – specifically have been exposed to the ideals of sexual repression and subjugation of women."

Morgan nodded. "Our unsub is a different type – one who suffers from hybristophilia. It's a sexual attraction to men who commit violent crimes. They give her a power that she lacks, which stems from low self-esteem." He shrugged, almost apologetically. It wasn't pretty, but it was just how it was. "And a need for a father figure."

"In his interactions with these women, the Angel Maker will have made them feel important, loved – like they have a connection that no one else can understand," Grace told them. "He will have tailored his responses to each woman, making them feel like they're the only one in his life."

"Well, the victims were raped," said another deputy. This one was older and more intense, less freaked out by the weirdness of the case. "How do you explain that?"

"She's using an instrument to simulate the sexual assault," Morgan replied. "This is something that she keeps in her rape kit, along with the weapon that she's using to bludgeon her victims."

"This is a list of women who visited and wrote to the Angel Maker while he was in prison," JJ said, wafting paperwork around. "Now, we've started to track these leads, but the list is extensive, so we're going to need your help."


	4. Master Plan

**Essential listening: First Day of My Life, by The Rasmus**

0o0

Aaron winced when he got out of the car.

It was beginning to occur to him that perhaps the doctor had been right about not going out into the field so soon. Even the slamming of the SUV's doors was setting off the ringing now. It was painful, but he knew his team were watching – as were the people of Lower Canaan. Given how freaked out everyone already was, he needed to keep people's faith, and that meant not showing weakness in front of the public.

The new crime scene was tragically pleasant. The garden was well-tended, leafy, and covered with kid's toys. Aaron shook his head, thinking sadly about Haley and Jack, glad that his – _their_ , he reminded himself – front lawn had never been decorated with that business-like yellow tape.

"Victim's Maxine Chandler," Sheriff Dobson told them, leading them through the maze of tape. "Neighbours say she's lived here her whole life – all twenty-eight years of it, anyway."

The sheriff sounded bitter, and Aaron didn't blame him. They'd let this phantom take another victim.

"How many kids does she have?" Aaron asked, eyeing the play equipment.

"Well, none of her own," the sheriff told him. "Runs a daycare."

Aaron nodded, feeling faintly relieved that they wouldn't be breaking the awful news to any children, and then guilty about that relief. A woman had still lost her life here, and he couldn't lose sight of that.

"The guy who called 911 came here to drop off his toddler and found Maxine in her bedroom," said Dobson, as they entered Maxine Chandler's bright, child-friendly living room. He nodded towards the bedroom. "The coroner's in there with her now."

Aaron shared a look with Morgan, both men fervently hoping that the man had kept his toddler out of Maxine's bedroom. Prentiss appeared from another part of the house.

"You check all entry points?" Morgan asked her.

"Yeah," said Prentiss. "No damage, no tool marks, same as the first."

"Now that we have two victims, we have data we can compare," said Aaron grimly. "We should see what victimology can tell us."

He winced as the ringing went up a notch, the way it did sometimes, and let Morgan and Prentiss continue the discussion by themselves. Trying to find something other than the painful buzzing for his mind to focus on, his eyes wandered towards the door to Maxine Chandler's bedroom. Troubled, Aaron wondered whether the woman's ghost was in there, like Delilah Grennan's, sobbing and afraid.

The sight – and sound – of that spectre had been so unnerving that he had left the house before questioning Pearce too closely, but now questions were beginning to occur to him. Did they know they were dead? Could they leave, if they chose to? How did Pearce turn something like that off?

Would he see the ghost if she was there?

The possibility made his skin crawl, no matter how harmless Maxine Chandler's spirit was – if it was there.

What his agent _had_ said on the matter had been quite accurate; although he didn't seem to be suffering from any physical effects from the 'transfer of energy' the book he'd found on the topic had described, he had spent a largely sleepless night. It had been disturbed by his hyperacusis, but also by unsettling dreams of dark eyes and dislocated weeping.

She had said on a number of occasions that sometimes she couldn't sleep, and Aaron had accepted this because no one spent their whole lives sleeping peacefully, particularly people who regularly dealt with the violently deceased. Now, though, he had to wonder how much her abilities cost her. Clearly, the 'toll' she had referred to when she actively hunted for graves – the headaches and the nosebleeds – wasn't the only thing she had to deal with.

The book, which he had ordered from the internet after an extensive and dizzyingly vibrant search, had indicated that those were the symptoms of forcing something. Aaron didn't like the idea that he'd made any of his agents force themselves through doing anything, but Pearce had said herself that she didn't mind if it helped catch someone.

Aaron sighed. Although he trusted her, he was absolutely certain that Pearce hadn't told him everything about what she could or couldn't do.

Hers, it appeared, was a whole other world – one which the rest of the team would have to remain ignorant of, at least until Aaron understood it himself. He frowned. Except, apparently, for Reid. That Pearce might talk to him about it wasn't necessarily that unlikely – the two young agents were extremely close, both on the job and off it – but given how reluctant she had been to talk to Aaron about it, it had come as something of a surprise. Reid had probably noticed something was off and then bugged her until she gave in; he could be particularly persistent when he scented a mystery.

More shocking, really, was the fact that Reid obviously believed her sufficiently to give ghosts or revenants any kind of credence. For as long as Aaron had known him, the kid had based his entire worldview firmly on science; physics, mathematics, geometry. That he had accepted even the borderline of the occult that Pearce represented was curiously unsettling.

"I'll get JJ to bring us the files on the first victim," Morgan suggested, bringing Aaron back to the conversation even as his agent left it.

Morgan went out back to have a more private conversation as the coroner, looking unusually grim, emerged from Maxine Chandler's bedroom. Aaron supposed that he didn't often have to deal with such brutality, in a town so ordinarily quiet as Lower Canaan.

"What'd you find?" he asked him.

"Well, I'd put the time of death around two a.m.," the coroner responded. "Victim was struck multiple times with a blunt object, signs of penetration, fluids."

The sheriff, too, seemed to have noticed how subdued the man was. This case was taking its toll on everyone in the town. The sooner they cleared this up, the better.

"Same post-mortem mutilation?" Prentiss prompted him.

The coroner hesitated before replying, "Same but – uh – different."

Puzzled, Aaron followed Prentiss into the bedroom (thankfully un-haunted, as far as he could tell) to see for himself. Running his eyes over the woman's mutilated remains, he pulled his gloves on, hoping that Pearce was right about solving their murder being enough to give these souls some peace.

"Nine puncture wounds this time," Prentiss observed.

"I wish I could say this was about the unsub's disorganised behaviour or mounting rage," Aaron reflected.

"Yeah, but it doesn't feel that way," Prentiss agreed.

"No," said Aaron, eyeing the deep gouge marks. "They definitely mean something."

Across the room, Prentiss took out her notepad and searched her pockets. "Can I have your pen?" she asked, coming up empty.

"Yeah." He handed it over, curious. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Prentiss told him, frowning.

Aaron watched her draw the pattern of wounds inflicted on Maxine Chandler's corpse; he knew she was onto something the moment her expression changed.

" _She_ did this!" Prentiss exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" Aaron asked.

"The unsub. She made these dots like this before she made the puncture wounds."

"That's why the coroner found paper in the wounds," Aaron realised, following her train of thought.

"It was a template," Prentiss guessed. "The Angel Maker did it from memory, but she needed a guide to get it right!"

"We need to go back and re-examine each of the patterns," said Aaron, thinking of the quickest way to get that done. "Where's Reid?"

0o0

Dave prowled around the table, watching Reid pore over the letters scattered across every available surface.

"Here's another one to Dove," the younger agent announced, cricking his neck. Although reading for long periods of time was really his thing, four hours with no breaks was beginning to take its toll. He looked exhausted. "November second, 2006."

"Same thing?" Dave asked.

"Yeah. 'Weather is good here. Out in the garden all day. Birds land on the fence. The moon is full now.'"

He handed the page to Dave, who read it and shook his head, pulling a face. "He got an hour a day in a concrete yard," Dave complained. "There _was_ no garden. There were no birds. Death row haiku. I mean, you have to _try_ to write this bad…"

Reid frowned, examining the letter in front of him more closely. "I think he did," he said, slowly, running a finger down each page. "He tried very hard to put each word – each letter, even – in the right order."

 _Interesting_ , thought Dave. _And not unheard of._

"So, it's a code?" he asked.

"A steganographic method that would allow him to write letters that don't appear enciphered," Reid said, which Dave supposed meant 'yes'. "The real message would be hiding in plain sight."

The two men shared a speaking look; both of them were capable of speculating on what might be concealed in the letters. They needed that information.

"What do you need to crack it?" he asked.

Reid thought about it for a moment, and then grimaced. He was already tired enough. "The ability to clone myself and a year's supply of Adderall?" he suggested.

Rossi chuckled. "I'll put on the coffee."

Behind him, Reid sighed, starting to organise the 'Dove' letters into some kind of coherent order.

0o0

"God the baby's wriggly today," said JJ uncomfortably, from the passenger seat.

They had been summoned to the new crime scene to deliver several boxes of files relating to Delilah Grennan's life and murder; now that they had another victim, they could compare them, looking for patterns that weren't so obvious with just the one body.

Morgan had suggested they look through the files at the Chandler residence, partly to give Reid the space he needed to crack the code he and Rossi thought was buried in Ryan's letters, and partly because the deputies were so wigged out. There was a pervading atmosphere of not-quite panic, and it was hard to work while that was going on. Reid, as usual, seemed to be oblivious to it, but it would be useful to have even a couple of hours away from that tension.

"Yeah?" Grace asked, hoping her expression looked more like a smile than it currently felt.

She remembered that feeling, somewhere between annoyance at having your kidneys kicked by a tiny intruder and utter delight that such a thing was possible – and happening to you. Happy as she was for JJ and Will, the pregnancy had brought a lot of the grief of losing her son to the forefront of her mind, and every day JJ progressed towards full term, Grace felt Michael's absence more keenly.

"It feels like they're trying to tap dance or something," JJ grumbled, but there was a new note there now, one which told Grace that her friend was getting suspicious.

Although Grace hadn't told anyone other than Reid about Michael, JJ wasn't blind. It was difficult for her to join in with the baby-talk, though she did try. She didn't want to rain on JJ's parade – it was such a happy time for her.

However, JJ was not an idiot.

She forced a laugh. "Maybe you've got a budding sports star in there," she joked, keeping her eyes on the road.

"Hah! Maybe…"

She could feel her friend watching her out of the corner of her eye, so she cast around for something else to talk about. Luckily, Lower Canaan was currently the kind of place that was full of distractions.

"Grace," JJ began tentatively, but she was already pulling over.

"What the hell?" Grace asked.

JJ leaned forward in her seat to see. The route to the crime scene took them directly past Lower Canaan's relatively small burial ground, usually deserted in the early afternoon, but it was currently drawing quite a crowd.

"I suppose they noticed the excavation," Grace mused, turning off the engine.

She and JJ shared a look, and both women got out of the SUV. Together, they stalked towards the small crowd that had gathered around the anonymous looking grave. The soil hadn't been replaced, largely because the empty coffin had been collected as evidence. With any luck, if they managed to track Ryan's corpse down, he could be reinterred without too much extra expense. Or interred, depending on how he had gone walking in the first place.

The crowd was agitated, edgy, muttering darkly and staring down into the empty hole in the ground.

Grace waited until they were only a few feet from the back of them before speaking. "Evening all," she said, in the official police voice that had sent shivers down the spines of pickpockets and driving offenders all over London.

Several people jumped, which Grace couldn't help taking a small amount of perverse pleasure from, and one or two of them immediately started walking away, looking like naughty children who had been caught somewhere they shouldn't be.

Two men at the front exchanged glances and stepped forward, neatly electing themselves spokespeople.

"You're not from around here," said the first one, tense and suspicious.

Grace pegged him for a family man; he had felt tip marks on his arms and the faintest stain of baby vomit on his shoulder. No wonder he was scared – and no wonder he was stepping forward. He had very strong reasons to want to protect this town.

"We're with the FBI," said JJ, as both women held up their badges.

A ripple of excitement went through the crowd – some of them looked instantly mollified, but most of them moved forward, beginning to press around the two agents. Beside her, Grace felt JJ tense. She kept her features deliberately open, easy. Like JJ, she knew how quickly a nervous crowd could turn into an angry one, even when the majority of them were good people. She could feel the fear in them, bubbling just beneath the surface.

"Then you can tell us what's going on," said the other man.

This one was smaller than his friend, wiry, a little scruffy around the edges. Early in the day as it was, Grace smelled the faint whiff of booze coming from his clothes.

 _Interesting_ , she thought. _Victim's family, perhaps? Not from the recent murders, because otherwise JJ would already have met him, and she's not acting like he's familiar…_

"A statement has been released by the Lower Canaan Sheriff's Office," JJ began, but the gruff man cut her off.

"I don't care what the Sheriff's Office says, I'm askin' you!"

His friend put out an arm, effectively holding him at bay. Grace watched him quietly, letting JJ do her thing.

"As I said," JJ continued, sounding extremely calm, given the circumstances. "The Sheriff's Office have released a statement. There has been a second murder, and the identity of the victim has not yet been released because their next of kin are yet to be informed –"

"We know all know who the victim was," a woman called, from near the back.

"That may be so," said JJ. "But until we've contacted their next of kin, that information can't be released. You're going to have to be patient –"

"Patient?" the gruff man demanded, pushing past his friend. The murmurs in the crowd were louder now, turning angry. "This guy has raped and murdered eight women and you want us to be patient?"

"Two," said Grace, feeling that his attention was better placed on her than on JJ, who had stopped carrying a weapon as soon as she knew she was pregnant.

"Excuse me?" the family man asked, level with his friend now. "Two?"

"Two," Grace repeated.

"But Cortland Ryan –" the family man began; Grace cut him off.

"Cortland Ryan was executed one year ago, and was confirmed dead by members of the medical profession," Grace told him, raising her voice so it would carry to the rest of the crowd. She glanced at JJ for permission, and her friend gave her the smallest of nods – it was nothing that hadn't been in the statement, anyway. "These latest two murders were not carried out by him."

"But it has to be!"

"He isn't dead –"

"It's Ryan, it has to be!"

"I'm telling you!"

Grace held up her hand for silence, putting the other on her hip where, coincidentally, her gun was holstered. Most of them took a mental step back – they wanted reassurance more than anything else, and that big, shiny FBI badge could be a powerful sedative. Most – but not all.

"Why did you dig up his grave?" the family man asked hotly.

"Because you asked the Sheriff's Office to," she said simply. "They wanted to reassure you."

"But you didn't?"

"We advised against it," she said, fairly.

"Why?"

"Because we thought the sight of the excavation would make people who are already scared about what's going on feel much more afraid," she explained, and a couple more people near the back sidled off, looking sheepish.

The rest, however, closed in; Grace could feel them move behind her – she and JJ were completely enclosed. Not a problem, ordinarily, but this wasn't an ordinary situation.

"And was he there?"

Grace met the man's eyes for a few moments, taking stock of the haunted expression there. She waited for JJ to say 'no comment', but she didn't. These people were scared enough not knowing, perhaps they would relax a little if they had something solid to cling to.

"No."

Everyone started talking at once, which wasn't unexpected.

"Then he's not dead!"

"I _told_ you!"

"Oh God!"

"What are we going to do?"

"What are _you_ going to do?" This last demand was levelled at JJ by the gruff man, who looked even angrier.

"Sir, I need you to –"

"Cortland Ryan is dead," Grace said, in a ringing voice that shut everyone up for a couple of seconds. "I watched the execution video. I spoke with the doctor at the jail. Cortland Ryan died."

"They said it didn't go right!" a woman cried, somewhere to Grace's left.

"It didn't," Grace admitted. "But he _is_ dead."

"Then how in the hell is he not in that hole?" the family man demanded, unnerved. "Are you saying he just climbed out?"

Grace laughed. "Are you seriously suggesting that Cortland Ryan is a zombie?" she asked, with just enough incredulity to raise a few nervous titters from the crowd.

"He might be!" said Mr Gruff, which had the desired effect of making at least ten members of the crowd back up and regain their sanity.

They were beginning to disperse, suddenly embarrassed to be there.

"Bob…" someone said, but he ignored them, glaring at Grace, who gave him a level stare.

"No," she said. "He is not. Someone took Ryan's body from his grave – or intercepted it before the coffin got here – in order to scare you. All of you. Are you going to let them win?"

"This individual is feeding off panic and fear in the town," said JJ. She sounded calm and in control. If Grace didn't know her as well as she did, she wouldn't have known she was afraid. "It gives them more power."

"Why?" the family man asked, still angry. "Why are they doing this?"

"I'm afraid that's something we can't tell you," JJ told him. "It's –"

"Then what use are you? Huh?" asked Mr Gruff, getting right in JJ's face. "Eight women have died and you aren't doing anything!"

"I'm going to ask you to take a step back," JJ growled, as several of Bob's friends started making noises about how he needed to calm down, including the family man.

"Take a step back? Take a step back? You got no idea, you little bitch –"

"Bob, right? We are going to play a little game called 'take a step away from the pregnant lady, or deal with her armed friend'," said Grace, in a carrying voice, though her hand didn't move any closer to her gun.

Gruff Bob still seemed pretty angry, but the word 'pregnant' had had the desired effect. He eyed JJ up momentarily and closed in on Grace instead. She met his glare dead on; letting him see that he had her scared would be a bad idea.

"Oh, hello," she said brightly, as his face appeared inches from her own, the strong scent of cheap whiskey on his breath. "You've had quite a bit to drink, haven't you?"

"You can't stop him, can you? That's what you don't want us to know!" Bob shouted, right in her face. "You're all useless!"

Grace let him rage. He was cogent enough not to attack someone he knew was pregnant, which probably meant he wouldn't attack anyone else, even someone with a badge.

"What if you got the wrong guy before, huh? What if he's still out there?"

That didn't mean she wasn't scared, of course. As long as he was focussed on her and not JJ, she could cope, but the thought of JJ and the baby getting hurt – and on her watch, too… No. That was not going to happen.

"I'm not going to say this again," she said, in a high, cold voice when Bob paused for breath. A sort of shiver ran through the crowd, responding to both the confident tone, and the power lurking beneath it. "Cortland Ryan is dead. He murdered six women in this town and put you all through hell, but he _is_ dead. He has not risen from the grave, he is not a phantom, he is not a zombie. He was a particularly evil human, and now he is gone. Whoever it is that is killing women now is feeding off his earlier murders. They are banking off your fear. They _will_ be caught and they _will_ be stopped."

She paused, knowing that every single person in earshot would be hanging on her every word.

"And you, Bob," she said, addressing the man whose angry face was only an inch from her own, "need to back off, calm down, go home and stop drinking. Let your friends help you get back on your feet – and leave the investigation to the Sheriff's Office, and to us."

Bob took a step back, then looked really rather confused.

"That goes for the rest of you too," Grace called, feeling the surge of power she associated with using the Voice. "Go home and look to your families. Let us do our jobs."

She allowed the intensity of it to fade, releasing them. There was a moment when everyone blinked, looking a little bemused, and then the crowd began to disperse. Bob, who had been the closest to her and had got the brunt of it, looked particularly unfocused, but he allowed his neighbours to lead him away.

The family man paused a few feet away and then came back to apologise to JJ. Not to Grace, she noted, with the kind of amusement you get when you're coming down from being afraid.

She watched them walk away, trying not to glance in her friend's direction.

Although technically she couldn't control anyone with the Voice (as the Guv had called it), she could make suggestions, and strongly enough for them to be followed for a few moments. Most people assumed it was their own head readjusting their priorities and just went along with it – assuming the suggestion wasn't against their personality or principles. It had come in handy before, when things needed diffusing, including at that awful school, earlier in the year, but she'd never used it so overtly in front of anyone at the BAU.

"Are you okay?" she asked under her breath, as the good people of Lower Canaan got into their cars.

"Yeah," said JJ, and Grace heard the faint breathlessness that gave her friend's fear away. "How did you do that?"

"Magic," said Grace, turning to her friend with an over-bright grin. "People hear the word 'pregnant' and re-evaluate who they're picking a fight with. Sorry," she added, more gently. "I shouldn't use your little tap dancer like that."

"No." JJ shook her head. "Don't worry about it – it worked! I don't know how it worked, but it did…" JJ gave her an appraising look that Grace did her best to ignore. "I wish I could have seen you back in London," she said, after a moment. "I bet that was something to see!"

"Something," Grace agreed as they walked back to their SUV, thinking that there were quite a lot of things about her time in London that she hoped JJ would never know about.

0o0

JJ stretched, uncomfortable in one of Maxine Chandler's kitchen chairs. The baby had gone to sleep a few hours before, which had helped somewhat, particularly after the scare they had had at the cemetery.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Grace, diligently reading through Delilah Grennan's accounts. While she was very glad that her friend had been able to diffuse the situation, JJ still wasn't entirely sure how she had done it. Really, all she'd done was tell them what everyone else had; there had just been something about the way Grace had said it that made them all believe it. If JJ had been the kind of person to believe such stuff, she might have taken her friend's comment about magic at face value – but that would be ridiculous.

"Small towns suck for victimology," Emily huffed, annoyed. "Too much overlap."

"I've got both women at the same church, same doctor, same grocery store," Morgan said, in a tone which suggested he completely agreed.

"Everyone here knows everyone else," Grace observed wryly. "They even went to the same high school, but in different years."

"She's mimicking the Angel Maker," sighed JJ, frustrated. "Maybe we should look at his victims."

"Yeah, but there's a disconnect," Hotch reasoned. "The Angel Maker chose women because they excited him sexually. The copycat's satisfaction isn't sexual."

"No," Morgan agreed. "It's in perfectly recreating the murders."

"Which she's doing," Grace pointed out, sounding tired but thoughtful. "With everything except the hammer."

"So what she looks for in a victim is someone who's easy to kill," Emily mused.

"Which for her means easy access to their homes," Hotch agreed. He frowned for a moment, thinking. "What did Delilah Grennan do for work?"

"She made jewellery, sold it out of her home," JJ said, not even needing to look it up in the file.

She'd read them all so many times now she could probably have recited the woman's social security number.

"So, they both had home-based businesses," Morgan said, following their unit chief's train of thought. "A stranger could walk in off the street and be a prospective customer."

"Unsub poses as a client, uh – maybe uses the bathroom, cracks the window so she can get back in later," Emily postulated.

"Let's check their business records and see who came by on the day of the murders," Hotch suggested. There was a brief flurry of activity as everyone did this and compared notes, but to no avail. The team subsided, disgruntled. "No matching names."

"Odds are, the name she gave them both was bogus," Grace pointed out. "So, probably neither of them knew her. In a town of this size that has to narrow it down considerably."

0o0

They had returned to the Sheriff's Office with the intention of calling it a night, but Emily had called Rossi, Morgan, Grace and Hotch over to one of the departmental computers – she was onto something.

"The puncture wounds on the victims' stomachs represent constellations," she told them, busily googling.

"Constellations?" Rossi asked, worried. "Don't tell me this guy was following the zodiac?"

"No." Emily shook her head. "These are from a family of constellations known as the Heavenly Waters."

"Well, I guess we know how he came up with the nickname," Morgan observed.

"That's why he'd open up the windows after each kill," Rossi realised. "So their souls could be released into the sky."

"He was building a sky full of personal 'angels'." Grace grimaced. "His own personal paradise."

"Delphinus, 'the dolphin'," said Emily, pointing it out on the webpage she had found. "Equuleus, 'the little horse'. Anything sound familiar?"

"His origami things," Morgan agreed.

Grace groaned. She had disliked them as soon as she had seen them; Garcia was right, they were annoyingly cute. They put her in mind of the tiny origami sculptures the company assassin in _Blade Runner_ had left all over the place. She wondered whether that was where he got the idea.

"There are nine constellations in the Heavenly Waters," Hotch pointed out. "The Angel Maker killed six."

"Yeah," Emily agreed. "Our unsub continued where he left off – uh, first she did Vela, and then, last night, she did Carina. The only one left is Columba, 'the dove'."

"Hey, aren't the letters Reid's working on addressed to 'my Dove'?" Grace asked, suddenly remembering.

"One more kill and she completes his set," Rossi mused.

"She knew the meaning of the stomach wounds," Hotch observed. "Something even we didn't know."

"She must have been a lot closer to Ryan than we thought," Morgan reflected.

"They weren't just close," said Reid, appearing from his corral of whiteboards. "They were in love!"

He beckoned them over; Grace eyed the boards warily – their contents looked rather like cryptography. She was absolutely certain that Reid would have found himself at Bletchley Park, had he been in England during the Second World War.

"How'd you crack it?" Rossi asked, astonished he'd managed it so quickly.

 _That's my genius,_ Grace thought fondly, and then frowned, annoyed at herself.

"I profiled the author," Reid told them. "Uh – Cortland Ryan was on death row with several high-ranking members of the Aryan Brotherhood."

"He got the code from the Aryans?" JJ gasped, astonished.

"Either that, or he read a lot of sixteenth century literature," said Reid. "The Aryans like to use a cipher based on a four-hundred-year-old code, written by Sir Francis Bacon."

Grace raised her eyebrows, wondering where they'd come across something like that. She ran her eyes over the boards again, impressed.

 _Dad would have loved this_ , she thought, and found her eyes had come to rest on Reid. _And you…_

She frowned again.

"So, it's a binary code?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah – uh – Bacon used a twenty-one letter alphabet," Reid explained. "This one's twenty-four. Each letter is assigned a bit string of five binary digits. This combination yields thirty-two possible encodings. Normally, you'd use a computer to run all these combinations, but it was quicker just to do it longhand until I found the right one."

Emily, who had been peering at Reid like he was an exhibit in a science museum, reached up and gently poked him in the face. He flinched away from it, frowning at her, baffled by this behaviour.

"He's so lifelike," she said, feigning amazement.

The rest of the team chuckled and Reid rolled his eyes, collecting the letters he'd been working on from the desk.

"We don't have a complete record of their correspondence," he said, "but I was able to make a chronology. The woman he calls 'Dove' established contact shortly after the trial."

"'My dearest Cortland'," Emily read aloud. "'Thank you for writing back to me. The day the verdict was read we shared a silent moment… I knew then there was a force willing us together. Every time I see you I feel warmed as if by the sun, and yet I fear if I come too close I'll be consumed by your fire'."

Grace picked up the thread of the conversation, reading for Ryan. "'Ever since your visit, I am crazed with thoughts of you. Already you've entered my dreams. Each time you appear to me, I'm embraced by a feeling of trust and belief, as if I've known you all my life'."

"'As always, I'm touched by your words, but I long to see you again. Days pass quietly, one into the next'," Emily continued. "'And I can think of little else'."

"'My dove, my secret wife'," Grace read out.

"'If only they would let us marry, I could finally hold your hand and kiss your lips'," Emily continued.

Grace went on, "'All appeals are lost. The guards celebrated my defeat by clearing out my cell. Possessions matter little to a condemned man'."

"'Here is my face, my body'," Emily read. "They die with you, the only man who will ever truly see me."

"'I can't leave this world without seeing your face one last time'."

"'Take heart, my love. I will bring a part of you back into the world, and forever you will watch over us from the stars…' What do you think she meant by that last line?" Emily asked. "'I will bring a part of you back'."

"Well," said Grace, "someone removed him from what was supposed to be his final resting place."

"Or the murders? She brought a part of him back with those," Morgan suggested.

"What if – uh – she was talking about his child?" JJ asked.

"She _did_ have access to his seminal fluid," said Grace, with a grimace.

"Well, she does say 'us'," Reid agreed. "'Watch over _us_ from the stars'."

"She used the semen samples to plant evidence, not to get pregnant," Rossi argued.

"What if she did both?" Hotch proposed.

"Well," said Emily slowly. "If she actually had his kid, we might be able to track her through birth records."


	5. Reverence, not Revenants!

**Essential listening: A Sky Full of Stars, by Coldplay**

 **0o0**

JJ grimaced into her notebook, reflecting that there were things out there in the world she would rather her unborn child not know about. The dark, powerful forces that had propelled Shara Carlino, a successful, attractive saleswoman to decide that the only thing that would bring her happiness was to copy the copycat and attack a woman in her home were a prime example. Fortunately for all concerned (except Shara herself, who had taken quite a beating), the woman had fought her off and her neighbours had come to the rescue.

It seemed utterly illogical to JJ that anyone could have taken the actions of their unsub as anything other than those of a disturbed individual – certainly not something to be jealous of. But then, as Rossi was fond of saying, murder and violence only had to make sense to one person for one moment.

Emily was grumpier than usual this afternoon, and JJ knew that had a lot to do with Shara; neither she nor Rossi had expected their interview with one of Ryan's other superfans to inspire another copycat. JJ suspected that Emily was rather taking it personally. She tapped her pen against her notepad thoughtfully, listening to Garcia typing like a madwoman, back in her tech-lair in Quantico.

"Okay, so there were four hundred and three children born in the Lower Canaan area between 2006 and 2008," said Garcia, after a few moments. "So, if you want me to find Baby Angel Maker, we're gonna have to narrow this down."

"Alright, well, Reid still has more letters to decode," JJ told her, "but he did find a phrase. 'I knew even before they told me that the future had taken root'."

"'Taken root'," Garcia echoed. "Sounds like someone got good news!"

"Date of conception," JJ agreed.

"And the date of that letter?"

"Uh – January seventh, 2007."

Garcia started typing again at high speed. "Okay, so we fast forward nine months…"

"Uh – ten months, actually," said JJ.

"Really?"

"I know, it was news to me, too," she chuckled.

At the back of her mind, she wondered whether it would be news to Grace, but she pushed the thought out of the way. Though she knew there was something off in her friend's behaviour since she had announced her pregnancy, they had other things to focus on right now – and Grace very clearly didn't want to talk about it.

"Huh! Okay," Garcia narrated, oblivious to JJ's inner musings. "So, we'll search birth records from August to September 2007. How's that? We'll do single mothers only, in case she wanted to keep the father a secret. You know, didn't wanna brag – 'Oh, your baby daddy's a third grade teacher? Well, mine likes to poke people in the stomach with tools, so there…' Okay, nine names. Now that's a little more manageable!"

0o0

JJ had brought over the list of names Garcia had generated from the baby hypothesis and Sheriff Dobson was casting a knowledgeable eye over it, crossing people off.

"Hannah Dreyfus was in an auto accident. She could barely walk. Shannon Conway moved away when the plant closed a year ago…"

"Any other names you recognise?" Derek asked, feeling frustrated.

"No, I don't –" The sheriff paused, frowning.

"What is it?" Hotch asked.

"Well, this one here sounds familiar, but I can't really place it," Sheriff Dobson mused. "Chloe Kelcher."

"Chloe Kelcher," Reid repeated, his brow furrowing. "That _is_ familiar."

Derek watched as the young agent hurried over to the box of letters and files on the other side of the office and leafed urgently through its contents. "Chloe Kelcher. She was on the jury!"

"Well, that makes sense," Derek reflected. "She woulda been exposed to the case evidence, seen first-hand what he did to his victims."

"That's when she fell in love with him," said Hotch, as Reid looked horrified at the very idea. He was so innocent, sometimes. "Sitting across the courtroom every day."

"Well, it's one thing to have a relationship with a killer," said Sheriff Dobson, with an air of disbelief. "It's another to become one."

"There might have been an incident that prompted the transformation," Reid speculated.

Hotch's frown deepened. "I think I know what it was," he said and showed them the file he had been reading.

"It's a death certificate," said Reid heavily. "Microvesicular steatosis. Her baby died at the hospital."

For no reason Derek could fathom, the kid sent Pearce – who was closeted with Emily and JJ at the other end of the office – a long, troubled kind of look. His expression was sad and almost wistful, as if he wanted to save her from some of old, secret pain.

Derek turned away before Reid caught him looking. He and Pearce were thick as thieves most of the time; he wondered what she could have shared with the young doctor that would make him look at her like that.

0o0

It was dark now, and they were all keenly aware that – based on her quickly establishing pattern – time was running out for them to get to Chloe before she struck again. Her house was dark and the blinds were closed, but that didn't mean that she wasn't there.

They were still hopeful.

Grace hunkered down behind the little shed out the back, waiting for the order to kick their unsub's back door in. She heard the shout from the front of the house and snapped to attention. The wood splintered beneath her boot, matching the sounds from the front of the house; she strafed into the dark kitchen, Emily and Spencer right behind her. They cleared each room systematically, their hope of a quick and easy capture diminishing with every square foot they covered, meeting the rest of the team in the centre of the little house.

"Alright, we all know what the endgame is," said Hotch, his voice tense. "She's looking for a final victim. She may have already chosen one. Let's tear this place apart, look for anything that might tell us who she's targeted."

Grace nodded, then frowned, her attention being pulled along the corridor to her left, like someone was tugging on the edge of her brain. She turned her head – and then she heard the laughter.

Very unpleasant laughter, like something deep and dark had crawled out from under the house and was lurking just beyond the edge of sight. It was the kind of laugh that, had Grace been alone in the house and not on a case, she would have run right back out into the night and never looked back. Clearly, whoever it was felt this was all very funny. She glanced up at her colleagues and swallowed, trying to dispel the deep-end-of-the-swimming-pool echo the sinister laughter had driven into her ears. None of them were responding, which was telling.

She swallowed. If she was right about this, the next few minutes were going to be unpleasant at best.

Following the ominous snickering, she moved towards the back of the house and found herself in a small, bright room. Grace paused in the doorway, suddenly gripped with tortuous nostalgia. The walls were a pleasant sky blue, matching the bedclothes on the cot and the cushion on the feeding chair in the corner. The ceiling was painted a much deeper blue, presumably to mirror the night sky, and sprinkled with glow-in-the-dark plastic stars, mapping out the constellations of the Heavenly Waters.

A great deal of time and effort had gone into this room – and love, however twisted. None of the circumstances of his birth had been the baby's fault.

Grace walked over to the cot. Chloe had laid out a little Babygro, perfectly pressed, with a matching hat on the blanket in the cot. Although she knew from the medical file that the baby had never made it home, it looked like the little room was still expecting him, as if it had been frozen in time, immaculately kept.

It was something she understood, though she hadn't done the same. Unable to face the task of taking the room apart, she had put it off until Max and the Guv had very graciously taken it out of her hands, quietly putting a few, tiny, things in storage for her. They'd left the decorations, she had found out later, when the house had been auctioned, but she doubted anyone would ever raise a child there.

The cushion on the chair was frayed and worn; it looked like Chloe spent a great deal of time there.

She frowned, mentally filtering out the cackling, just for a short while, in respect of the tiny head that had never rested on that bright pillow. Gazing forlornly at the small, unbearably cute clothes, one hand lightly resting on the cot, Grace didn't even hear Spencer come in. The first she knew of it was when he touched her arm.

Startled, she whipped her head around, but relaxed when she saw it was him; she had been expecting something much darker. He winced – a silent apology for making her jump – and put his hand on her back. Although she couldn't feel it through the stab vest, the knowledge that it was there helped.

Together, they stared sadly down at the cot; one glad to be understanding, one glad to be understood.

For a moment, there was stillness in the room. Grace could hear the rest of the team moving around, searching, talking their findings through; Spencer's quiet breathing, her own tired heartbeat. The laughter, worryingly, had ceased. Although in many ways, the lack of that horrible sound was an improvement, it did rather make her wonder what he was up to.

There was little doubt, really, who it was. Where else would he be?

Spencer dropped his hand as someone's footsteps approached, and Morgan came into the room, nodding at them both. He looked around, pensively.

"Note the view," said Morgan, pointing up at the star-spotted ceiling as Hotch joined them. "Daddy's watching."

 _You're not wrong_ , thought Grace, feeling her chest tighten against the pressure in the room. In the corner of her eye she saw the shadows begin to gather against the wall.

As if Morgan's words had summoned him, Cortland Ryan emerged from his hiding place, drifting slowly through the wall for maximum effect. He was more shadow that human, though he was still recognisable; he was wearing that same smug expression that she remembered from his execution video. He glared around at them all, the intensity of it lost on the majority of the team, for whom he was invisible.

His presence wasn't lost on them, however; Reid shivered as Ryan passed behind him, while Morgan and Hotch tightened their jaws, unconsciously responding to their unknown tormentor.

Knowing that he would take advantage of her if he could, Grace kept her expression blank and her eyes on Morgan, but something must have tipped the creepy bastard off (or maybe it was that she was the only woman in the room) because he was behind her in a flash, moving in that strange, there-one-moment, gone-the-next way that some spirits had; no longer bound by physics, but kept in check by their own internal logic.

Steeling herself, Grace didn't react when he huffed on the back of her neck, or when he started whispering about all the horrific things he was going to do to her when he got her alone – all the things he must have done to the eight women he had raped and murdered to form his own personal constellations.

Freezing breath tickled her ear as the phantom rasped foul nothings; she gritted her teeth. There were too many agents in this little room for her to react without them noticing.

"It must have devastated her to think she could hold onto Ryan by having his child and then lose the baby," Hotch reflected, sadly.

"Completing his murders became the only way she could hold onto him," Morgan realised.

Giggling evilly, Ryan ran an icy finger down Grace's cheek and neck; she bit the inside of her lip hard enough to draw blood. It ran onto her tongue, snatching at her consciousness with all the tartness of iron.

He had to be fairly powerful to be so tangible, she mused, and she was loath to give any credence to there being any dominion in his Angel Maker device. There were a limited number of ways someone who hadn't been a wizard in life could be so solid in death.

Ryan hadn't lived in this house, or died in it, so…

"Not the only way," she said, with gritted teeth.

With the eyes of half her team on her, she crossed to a large trunk by the wall. It was a pleasant, aged thing; like the room, it was immaculately kept, with a bunch of dried flowers on top. Gently, she moved the posy of papery roses, ranunculus and wildflowers, tied with a black ribbon, and lifted the lid of the trunk.

The polythene bag that the corpse was lodged in prevented most of the stench of decomposition. In fact, it was more desiccated than anything else, grim as it was.

"Oh god," Reid breathed, as Ryan cackled behind him.

The mortal remains of Cortland Ryan gaped up at them with open mouth and empty eye sockets, their previous contents long rotted.

Hotch shook his head.

Morgan gave a low whistle. "Guess that answers that," he said.

 _Well, at least he isn't a zombie_ , Grace thought, grimacing.

"I assume that's who I think it is," said Rossi, as he and Sheriff Dobson came in from a fruitless search of Chloe Kelcher's bedroom.

Grace grunted, swatting at Cortland Ryan's ghost as she would at a troublesome fly; he was hissing in her ear again, tugging on her hair with translucent fingers. Hotch met her gaze across the man's corpse. Grace rolled her eyes, unable to prevent the action.

 _Why did I chose to spend my life with profilers?_ she asked herself exasperated. _Why not academics? I could have lectured in forensics or forensic psychology…_

Her boss's eyes still on her face, Grace gave him a grim smile.

 _Well, I do like a challenge, I suppose._

"I got an appointment book here," said Rossi, waving it about. "Meetings with Delilah Grennan and Maxine Chandler on the day of each murder."

"She's organised, I'll give her that," Grace grumbled, the voice of Chloe Kelcher's paramour still hissing in her ear.

Hotch addressed Dobson: "Sheriff, have you found her tools, or the gun?"

"Nothin' yet," Sheriff Dobson griped.

"She had something this morning," said Rossi, who had been flicking through the date planner. "Faye Lanreaux, 162 North Red –"

"North Red River Drive," Sheriff Dobson interrupted, shocked. "She's a CPA – she does my taxes!"

"Does she work out of her home?" Hotch asked, as the intensity of the law enforcement officers around him shifted.

Dobson nodded. "Yep."

"Let's go," Hotch instructed, hustling them all out of the building and back towards their cars.

Grace was halfway down the steps of Chloe Kelcher's porch when Hotch grabbed her arm, pulling her to one side.

"Is he in there?" he asked, in such a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn't talking about the thing in the trunk.

She shuddered, grateful to be out in the sunshine and away from Ryan. She glanced over her shoulder, to the window where his foul shade still lingered, watching. "Oh yeah."

0o0

They sped through the town, heading quick and urgently towards Red River Drive. No one wanted another death on their watch.

Grace could have wished, however, as they rounded a corner at some speed, causing her to cling to the roof of the SUV, that someone other than Derek Morgan had climbed into the driver's seat. Although she trusted his skill entirely, when there was an unsub to catch, the man had a tendency to drive like a lunatic.

He pulled up at the end of the street, rather sharply, and everyone piled out of the car, Emily, Rossi and the Sheriff close behind.

"That's it," said Dobson, gesturing at a modest residence further along the road.

Moving quickly together, Morgan and Grace checked a car parked just along the road.

"'85 Volkswagen," Grace noted tensely. "Chloe's here."

"The car's still warm," said Morgan, laying a hand on the hood of the car. "We've gotta be right behind her!"

Hotch looked at the house. "The windows are closed," he observed. "That's a good sign."

Grace nodded. Kelcher hadn't started yet.

"Well, my team's ready," Sheriff Dobson told him, glancing along the street to where the armed unit were swiftly taking stock. "Let's get in there!"

"Sheriff, we didn't recover a gun at Chloe's house," Hotch cautioned. "We have to assume she's armed."

"Well, so are we," said Sheriff Dobson.

"If you storm in now, she'll shoot," Rossi explained, "and chances are she'll start with your accountant."

"This is her reason for living," Grace added. "She'll fight for it."

"What do you think, Hotch?" Morgan asked, watching their boss's expression.

"I think you should look for an open window – Pearce, you cover him from outside," Hotch ordered. They began to move away as he continued, "Sheriff, I need you to bring all your vehicles around to the front, facing forwards, with lights off. And I need a megaphone…"

0o0

From behind the line of cars, Emily eyed the dark house warily. She knew the profile – and Chloe Kelcher wasn't going to give up her prey.

"Hotch, I don't think you can get through to her," she remarked, after a moment.

"No, but maybe you can," said Hotch, offering her a megaphone.

Bewildered, she took it from him, careful not to turn it on early.

"The profile's clear," said Reid, surprised. "You can't talk this woman down."

"No, but just occupy her," Hotch explained. "If we're right about the MO, she's left a window open somewhere. Morgan and Pearce will find a way in, we just need to buy them some time."

0o0

Moving swiftly around the side of the house, Grace and Morgan checked every possible entry point, praying that Hotch was right. Finally, at the back of the house, they found the hall window wide open. For a moment, Grace met her friend's eyes – an acknowledgement that she had his back – and took up position a couple of feet back, where she had a good sightline through the house, but couldn't be seen from inside.

Momentarily, Morgan holstered his gun and then silently climbed inside the house. Grace followed his movements, on edge until he was clear of the window; this and his exit would be the only time she wouldn't be able to keep him covered.

She watched him pull his weapon up and melt into the shadows at the end of the hall – and not a moment too soon. Out in front, someone switched all the car headlights and all the sirens on at once, flooding the house with noise and light; buying them much-needed time.

Emily's voice, magnified, boomed out across the dark night. "Chloe, this is the FBI. We know you're in there, and we know what you're trying to do." Emily paused for a second, clearly weighing what to say next. "I know you think that finishing what Cortland started will bring you close to him, but first you should know who he really was."

 _Well, that ought to get her attention_ , Grace thought, though it wouldn't work for long.

Sure enough, she saw Morgan flatten himself against the wall as a dark shape (presumably Kelcher) walked out into the hall, moving slowly and uncertainly, as if she was entranced by Emily's voice. Grace tensed, but she didn't even look in Morgan's direction; instead, she moved out into the front room, conveniently showing them exactly where Faye was, and keeping her out of the way.

She saw the shadow that was Morgan detach itself from the wall and vanish into the room Kelcher had emerged from.

Soon, Chloe Kelcher's internal universe, where she was bringing herself closer to her god-like lover, would 'right' itself and she would go back to torturing Faye Lanreaux.

"I know you thought you were special, but the truth is – the same things he wrote to you, he wrote to many other women," Emily continued. "I've seen the letters. Dozens read the same lines… 'Without the flesh, there is only the soul'. 'You don't need to touch me to feel the love I have for you'. Does that sound familiar?"

Grace frowned slightly. Emily was replicating the words very accurately, and there was just enough of a pause to suggest that she was being fed the lines. Probably by Reid.

"Cortland wasn't who you thought he was," Emily went on, expanding her point. "He – he – he was a narcissist, Chloe. He wasn't capable of loving anyone but himself. "To Carla Kettinger he wrote, 'Ever since your visit, I am crazed with thoughts of you. Already you have entered my dreams. Each time you appear to me, I am embraced by a feeling of trust, belief, as if I've known you all my life'."

Tensely, she shifted from foot to foot, hoping that this would work just a little longer.

"'It's clear to me now that you are my fate and we are destined to be together. And when I am gone that will not change'," Emily read out. "'I will live on in you. In death, our union will be eternal'. 'All appeals are lost. The guards celebrated my defeat by clearing out my cell. Possessions matter little to a condemned man, but I cannot leave this world without seeing your face one last time'."

A noise to the left caught Grace's attention and she move towards it, confident both that Kelcher was still in the front room of the house and she didn't have an accomplice. A small, terrified woman was trying to climb out of the window, Morgan close behind her; Grace holstered her weapon to lend a hand, practically lifting Faye Lanreaux out of the window. She held her steady while Morgan silently climbed out and closed the window behind him.

Quickly, Morgan took Faye by the arm, keeping her ducked below the windows, and led her to the front of the house. Grace followed, her gun out and up again, in case their unsub was onto them.

"It isn't your fault that he made you feel these things," Emily called out, through the megaphone. "It isn't your fault your baby died."

 _Hard sell, that one_ , Grace thought darkly.

As their little party rounded the corner, a pained scream rent the air. They picked up their pace; Kelcher had discovered their ruse.

"It's over, Chloe, we have Faye," said Emily, as she spotted them heading around the back of the cars towards the ambulance.

Grace peeled off and joined the confab by the cars, slotting in between Sheriff Dobson and his enthusiastic deputy.

From inside the property came the sounds of Faye Lanreaux's house being destroyed in a fit of blind rage. They had taken her last kill from her and there was nothing she could do to get it back. In order to save Faye, they'd had to push Kelcher over the edge. Grace steadied her gun on the front of the car.

 _If this isn't a guarantee of suicide-by-cop, I don't know what is,_ she thought.

"You have nowhere to go," Emily called.

Abruptly, the crashes stopped, as if the whirlwind that was Chloe Kelcher's mind had ground to a halt.

"I think we got some tear gas," the Sheriff offered. "I'm assumin' it's still good."

"We're not gonna need it – she doesn't have anyplace to go," said Rossi.

"Well, maybe she'll do herself a favour and put herself down," said Sheriff Dobson.

"She's not gonna do that either," said Hotch. "She's not done."

The front door opened, and everyone tensed, focussing entirely on the woman emerging from the shadows of Faye Lanreaux's porch. Grace took up a defensive position as everyone else's guns came up to mark their killer's every move.

"Chloe, drop the gun!" Hotch shouted. "Chloe! Drop the gun!"

"Damn it, lady!" Sheriff Dobson barked. For all his talk, he didn't want to have to shoot her any more than anyone else did. "Drop it!"

 _She's not going to,_ Grace thought, keenly aware of the profile and how Kelcher's desperation must be spiralling right now. _This is all we left her with._

They watched as the woman who had kept her lover's corpse in her baby's bedroom for nearly a year looked up at the sky, tears of joy in her eyes. "I'm comin' to you, baby!" she said, softly, then raised the gun in the general direction of the police cordon

A shot rang out and Kelcher dropped to the ground; Hotch reeled backwards, clutching his head. The bullet, Grace realised, as Rossi and Spencer hurried to their stricken unit chief's side, had come from the Sheriff's gun. He and Emily had run forward to make sure Kelcher's gun was out of reach. There was a haunted expression on his face. Lower Canaan was such a quiet place – he'd probably never had to shoot anybody before.

She waited until Emily had checked their murderer's weapon and holstered her own before putting her gun away, though she knew the woman on the ground was not going to be able to shoot anybody now. Kelcher was a few feet back, watching the scene unfold with a kind of bemused detachment as Dobson checked her pulse and shook his head, points of something that looked like starlight radiating from her stomach.

 _Oh god_ , thought Grace, as the echo turned her face towards the sky, an expression of utter bliss on her face, and dissolved.

On the ground, Emily paused, finding blood on her hands, and pulled up Chloe Kelcher's sweater.

"What did she do?" Sheriff Dobson asked, in a hollow voice.

"We took her victim," said Emily, gazing unhappily down at the crimson stab wounds. "She had to complete his work."

0o0

 _The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it._

Wendell Berry

0o0

It was pretty late in the day when Pearce sidled up to him, eyeing the bottle of aspirin in front of him as if she genuinely appreciated how dumb he had been to put himself in a line of officers who were guaranteed to have to discharge a weapon at some point. Fortunately, perhaps, for both of them, she chose to stay mute on that particular subject, asking instead if she might be allowed to have Kelcher's house cleared of personnel for a couple of hours.

"Why?" he asked, after a moment's appraisal, though he already suspected her motives.

After all, he had seen her face in the child's bedroom, and the way she had shuddered when he asked her about Ryan's trip to the afterlife.

"I can't leave it like that," she said, quietly. "It's not really my area, but – if someone else moves in…" Pearce shook her head. "I can't leave it like that."

Aaron nodded, wondering what he would do in similar circumstances. Pearce had been very vague, to date, about the things that went bump in the night (which apparently included her), and he was under no illusions that she might have glossed over certain aspects.

He remembered Kate's reservations about her, which was painful, and then the way Grace had looked so fragile when he'd asked her about her old team.

Really, did he need to know exactly what each of his agents did at all times in order to trust them?

Pushing the thought away, at least for the moment, he put his head to one side. "What did you have in mind?" he asked, curious as to what his agent might tell him, and what she might leave open to conjecture.

0o0

The sun was bright and the day was quiet, which was a mercy, Aaron felt.

Nearly exploding his eardrums during the takedown, and then spending two hours with an inscrutable agent who definitely wasn't telling him everything had not been conducive to a gentle or restorative night's sleep. She had been fairly reluctant to let him accompany her for what was obviously going to be an exorcism, and he had agreed to wait outside only after ordering her to show him the spirit she so plainly wanted to eradicate.

One minute in the presence of Cortland Ryan's hideous spectre had been enough to convince him to go and sit in the car, leaving Pearce, unflinching and silent, in the room where his mortal remains had recently been lodged.

It might have been his ears playing tricks on him (and with his hyperacusis, Aaron could well believe it) but he could have sworn he'd heard screaming and crashing coming from the house while he'd sat in the Yuke, toying with the idea of heading in to check on his young friend and staving off the desire to drive away as fast as he could and never look back. She had walked out after forty-five minutes, a little shaky (or that might have been his imagination), but also strangely menacing.

Neither of them had spoken on the short drive back to the hotel, and this morning Pearce seemed blithely content to pretend that they had never even been there, chatting with JJ and Prentiss, and winding up Reid.

He watched her help the young doctor carry a box of files to their departmental SUV out of the corner of his eye, wondering just what it was he was quietly condoning. He turned his attention back to Sheriff Dobson and his lady friend, who had come to the front of the Sheriff's Office to see them off.

"I made these for your flight," said Sela, handing Aaron a plate of fresh cookies.

He smiled, appreciative of the gesture. "Thank you."

"It's a small thanks, but…" She shrugged.

Aaron remembered her face from a couple of days before; there was a lot she couldn't articulate going into those cookies.

"My recipe," Sheriff Dobson told him, with a hint of pride.

Aaron met their smiles with one of his own. The town could rest easy now, and that was good enough for him.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all this again," he said, and meant it.

"I suppose we never stopped going through it," said Sela, wisely. "But maybe now…" She touched Sheriff Dobson's arm, tenderly.

"Hopefully," said Aaron, recognising people who were looking to the future now, instead of dwelling in the past.

Happy to see her baked goods properly discharged, Sela went back into the Sheriff's Office, presumably to wait for Sheriff Dobson.

"She going to be okay?" Aaron asked, testing the waters.

"Yeah, she'll be fine," said the Sheriff, with a grin. "Maybe you gotta sit with the past before you can walk away from it."

Aaron nodded. "Thank you, Sheriff," he said, shaking his hand.

"Thank you."

Slowly, he walked back towards the car, where his team – his family – were exchanging their usual post-case banter; he listened for a moment, glad that his ears were sufficiently intact that he could hear it.

"Anyone get directions back to the airstrip?" JJ asked, having bid the helpful deputies a fond farewell.

"The town's only got one road," Morgan, always playing the cool guy, scoffed. "We'll find it."

"Yeah…" said Prentiss sarcastically. "Morgan doesn't like to follow directions – you didn't know about that?"

"Probably why he gets lost so much," Pearce remarked, and then danced backwards out of Morgan's reach before he could punch her lightly on the arm. She stuck her tongue out at him, the very picture of an annoying little sister.

"Yeah, he likes to 'vibe it'," Reid added, with a cheerful roll of his eyes.

"Okay smart ass, you drive," Morgan protested, and tossed Reid the keys.

"Oh," Prentiss groaned.

"Oh, great!" exclaimed JJ."

Pearce sighed, and Reid took advantage of her proximity to swat her shoulder.

"Sweet!" He grinned, holding the keys up in triumph.

Aaron chuckled, which did bad things to his eardrums, so he stopped. He handed the plate of cookies to Prentiss. "For the flight," he said.

"What?"

"I'm just going to grab my bag," Aaron told them, as every member of his team paused in the act of settling in the SUV to stare at him.

"You're not comin'?" Rossi queried.

"I think I'm going to drive," he replied, not wanting to elaborate.

"Urgh." Prentiss grimaced. "It's over seven hours back to Quantico!"

"I really shouldn't be flying," Aaron responded and everyone subsided a little, nodding.

"Oh." Prentiss nodded like this made sense.

Had he really been that obviously damaged?

"'Bout time you worked that one out, boss," said Pearce cheekily, from the passenger seat.

This time, JJ slapped her arm; Pearce twisted in her seat, grinning like something out of a pantomime.

Aaron gave her a withering look. She was right. Of course she was. They all were.

"I've done that drive before," Rossi said delicately, as Reid insisted Pearce got in the back for his own peace of mind. "You'll see a lot of pretty country along the byways. You might consider stretching it out a day or two."

Aaron smiled slightly, understanding what his old friend was telling him.

"Maybe I will," he said. "Thanks."

He backed up a few paces as Rossi got in the car and Reid pulled away rather more smoothly than his fellow agents were expecting, from the sound of the teasing cheers in the back of the car. They turned out of the parking lot and out onto the road, leaving Aaron behind with his go bag, the second SUV and 'a day or two' of road ahead of him.

He shrugged his bag onto his shoulder, reflecting that he hadn't felt this free in far too long.


	6. Minimal Loss

**Essential listening: Nevermind, by Leonard Cohen**

 **0o0**

 _To follow by faith alone, is to follow blindly._

 _Benjamin Franklin_

0o0

It was a fairly quiet day, by BAU standards. As usual, there was a mountain of reports to go through, a bit of friendly banter between agents, filing ninjas navigating between the desks. Everyone was working reasonably hard, as you might expect for a warm Tuesday morning, and there were no major cases pending. Both Reid and Prentiss were out, consulting with Colorado State Police's Child Services department in La Plata County, and those agents who were left were getting their paperwork out of the way.

All in all, it should have felt relatively restful, quite different from the urgent and demanding cases they had dealt with of late – a much needed breathing space.

Why, then, Grace wondered, was she feeling so tense? She had been on the edge of her seat all day, as if her body knew something that she didn't; as if she was waiting for something. Each report had been despatched with unusual speed, and Morgan had picked her up on that, and her quietness. Grace had brushed him off with an 'I didn't sleep well', but she knew that wasn't it at all.

The days of long, restless nights, which had been with her now for over three years, were beginning to fade – due, in a large part, to her family at the BAU and the security that offered her. Her insomnia only really returned when she was on a rough case, or if she'd been grave hunting – or if Spencer showed up and they got talking until the small hours.

Today's strange, fidgety energy felt all the more out of place because of this new foundation.

The universe was clearly trying to tell her something, but she was buggered if she knew what it was.

She was making tea in the small kitchen area when Morgan screamed Hotch's name, and suddenly that weird feeling of potential made a lot more sense. She hurried back out into the bull pen, abandoning her tea, and went to stand with JJ and Morgan, both of whom looked terrified. Hotch and Rossi quickly came out of their offices and leant on the barrier, responding to the shout that had electrified the whole room.

"The TV!" Morgan shouted. "Prentiss and Reid!"

Every agent present stared up at the TV on the far wall, which JJ had turned up the sound on.

The newsreader was looking somewhere between deadly serious and very excited. Grace supposed that he knew this could well be his big break. " _… after losing a thirty minute gun battle. Although knowing knows for sure how many people are inside, it is believed at least three of the child service members are still trapped in the compound…"_

Around the bull pen, every landline and every mobile went off at once; agents dived to answer them.

"Alright, that means we're the lead with hostage rescue and support," said Hotch loudly. "Let's go!"

0o0

The remaining members of the BAU had made it to the runway in record time.

The jet felt oddly empty this morning. It was another disconcerting thing on a disconcerting day. They had all clustered around the table, where the lack of two extra bodies didn't seem so prevalent. All of them were in a state of high agitation now; the newsreader had said there had been fatalities, but there was no way to know whether any of those had been Spencer or Emily.

JJ was leaning on the seat opposite the table, from where she was better able to see the laptop. Garcia was streaming the news report to them. Things had not really changed, and the journalist was still enjoying himself.

" _Things turned deadly when the Colorado state police tried to serve a warrant. Attorney general, Jim Wells, says the reclusive cult has been the subject of a six month weapons investigation…"_

Garcia paused the video; they had heard enough.

"Six months?" Morgan queried, incredulous. "We didn't check?"

"Oh, we checked!" JJ told him, her professional pride stung. "I had ATF call Wells. He told ATF there were no pending state investigations. He lied."

"Fucking moron," Grace grumbled.

"Why?" Rossi asked.

"Wells is challenging the governor in the next election," JJ explained, frustrated. "He thought that ATF was about to poach his big, election launching weapons bust."

Dismayed, everyone shook their heads. What a stupid risk to take.

"So instead he put a bunch of lives in danger. At least he'll never make governor now," Grace reflected tightly.

"Now, it's clear he didn't know there were FBI agents there," JJ continued, "he just thought the best time to serve a state warrant was when the kids were safe inside the school, being interviewed."

"Oh good grief."

"What do we know about this sect?" Rossi asked.

 _Garcia minimised the live stream and popped up in her own little window. "Liberty Ranch was founded in 1980 by libertarian, Leo Kane," she announced. "He created it as a self-sustaining commune."_

"Libertarians believe that everyone has the right to do what they want as long they aren't infringing on the rights of others," Morgan said.

"I could go for that," said Grace.

"But libertarians aren't religious," Rossi pointed out. "Clearly this sect abandoned libertarian principles."

"Benjamin Cyrus, the current leader, introduced religion eight years ago, when Kane left," said Hotch.

Morgan nodded. "Garcia, what we got on Cyrus?"

" _Oh, we got bupkiss," she complained. "It's like the guy never cast a shadow on the known universe!"_

The whole team groaned, internally.

" _However, his predecessor, Leo Kane, is doing a seventeen year stretch at Deerfield Federal Prison," said Garcia. "Apparently Libertarians do not like paying taxes."_

"Seventeen years for tax evasion?" Morgan asked, surprised.

" _Oh no, that would be two years for tax evasion and fifteen for going after four IRS agents with a Louisville slugger," Garcia elaborated, miming the baseball bat attack._

"Let's have Kane brought to the scene," Hotch suggested. "He's our best chance of finding out some idea of who we're dealing with."

0o0

Colorado was the same kind of dry hot Grace remembered from Nevada. It was all salt and sweat and a sandy taste on the tongue. The airstrip where they had landed was blisteringly hot, the temperature amplified by the concrete; by comparison, the patch of desert where the ranch was situated was marginally cooler.

In the back of the Yuke, with JJ and Morgan, Grace felt freezing. They had run through all the procedural stuff on the jet, trying to stay calm and not spend too long glancing at their friends' empty seats, but they had a way of pulling the eye. None of them would be even vaguely easy until they knew Emily and Spencer were okay.

And they would be okay. They had to be.

Rossi pulled up by a command unit someone had very efficiently put together some way from the ranch; there was a control shed with a broad awning, under which a great deal of audio equipment was ranged.

Grace glanced at the nearby sign, marking the edge of the ranch's territory: _'Liberty Church Ranch'_.

 _Big change_ , thought Grace.

She helped JJ carry stuff from the car, not quite eavesdropping on the urgent conversation taking place in front of the SUV.

"Dave, they've left the choice of negotiators up to me," said Hotch.

Rossi nodded. "I taught most of the hostage negotiation unit – you want a recommendation?"

"I'm making you the lead negotiator."

Rossi stared at him. "Me?"

"Why go to the students when I have the teacher?" Hotch asked.

 _Fair point_ , thought Grace.

"Because the teacher is emotionally involved!" Rossi responded hotly. "So is the agent in command!"

"I know I am," Hotch replied urgently. "This is a unique situation. We have two agents who can affect the outcome on the inside."

"True, but I can't be objective – I know them too well!"

"This outcome depends as much on our ability to predict the moves of Prentiss and Reid as Cyrus," argued Hotch. "That's why you're the best man for the job!"

"Assumin' that Prentiss and Reid are still in a condition to _make_ moves!" Rossi hissed.

Grace turned away, feeling a little sick. The idea of either of them hurt badly enough that they couldn't influence events made her stomach hurt.

Hotch shook his head, frustrated. "I know how bad this is!" he hissed. "That's why I want you to do the talking!"

Rossi took a mental step back, assessing his expression. "Alright."

Grace looked up as the door of the control shed slammed open, as though someone had been personally offended by it. A man in a reasonable suit stalked out of it, closely followed by a much more sensible looking man in military fatigues.

"You're obviously not in charge, I can see that!" cried the politician, charging down the steps of the command shed.

"I'm sorry sir," said the man, not sounding sorry at all, "I'm under direct orders from the FBI."

Instinctively, Grace, Rossi and Hotch drew nearer; this overblown pen-pusher was presumably Jim Wells. Although what she really wanted to do right now was punch him in the throat, Grace was aware that this wouldn't really help matters. To be of the most help to their friends, they needed minimal distractions. They needed him contained.

"I'm the Attorney General of this state!" he shouted. "I demand to know why I wasn't told the FBI was sending undercover agents into the sectarian ranch!"

Hotch moved forward before the others could; Grace eyed the back of his head, warily. He was _pissed_.

"The only thing you're in a position to demand is a lawyer!" he told him, unequivocally.

Wells looked at them, too wound up to pay attention to the danger he was in if he continued to wind up three agents whose team members he had put in a hostage situation.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, arrogance clouding any common sense.

"I'm Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief. I'm the guy who's gonna tell the attorney general of the United States whether to charge you with obstructing a federal investigation or negligent homicide!"

Grace nearly cheered. Wells looked astonished; she wondered when they last time anyone said 'no' to his face. She hadn't heard Hotch this furious since Reid mouthed off during in a profile in West Bune. If anything, he was probably angrier right now than he had been back then. This was not a day to test him.

Unfortunately, Jim Wells did not seem to have realised this.

"You can't talk to me like that!" he spat.

Grace imagined he was the kind of man who got through life by bullying people. Something that absolutely was not going to work, today.

Hotch stepped close to him, right in Wells' personal bubble, and growled, " _Get off my crime scene!_ "

For a moment, the man looked like he was about to cry, then he scurried back to the expensive car that was waiting for him on the edge of the makeshift command area.

"You know what, boss?" she remarked, impressed. "I could pretty much kiss you right now!"

Hotch's eyes slid right and he gave her a withering look.

Grace raised a hand in supplication. "I'm not gonna."

He rolled his eyes, turning away. "Hey Dan." Hotch shook hands with the head of the Hostage Rescue and Support team. "This is Grace Pearce. You know Dave Rossi?"

"Sure," Dan smiled, tightly.

"We've been here before, haven't we?" Rossi asked.

"Waco, Ruby Ridge, Freeman standoff," Dan nodded. "Let's hope someone listens to you guys this time."

"Oh, they did more than listen," said Rossi, with grim amusement. "They put us in charge."

Dan nodded again, pleased.

"So, bring us up to speed?" Hotch asked.

"I've sent the state police packin'," he explained. "They started this mess, lost a man in the process. Hope that's okay."

"If you hadn't, we would've," Hotch told him.

"Good," said Dan. "County Sheriffs have had no run ins with the sect, so we're usin' them as support. We've had no contact with 'em so far. They've got power – solar. We can shoot out the panels if you think –"

"No, no – that's an escalation," Rossi interrupted.

"Okay," said Dan at once. "But that means they have access to the news."

"I'll get JJ to talk to the press," said Hotch.

"We should have her put a lid on the guy who broke the story," Grace suggested. "Seems like he's trying to turn this into another Munich Olympic Village."

Hotch nodded. "Dan, get your men ready to be briefed. Let's go."

Grace followed Dan Torre into the command shed, pleased that he was capable, known and trusted. That counted for a lot at a time like this. She paused on the threshold, casting a glance over to the distant buildings where her friends were being held.

If they weren't okay, there was going to be trouble.

0o0

The inside of the command shed was small but efficient, much like the team it held. The Hostage Support and Rescue team were good people, it seemed, happy to have the BAU on board and committed to pushing for the best possible outcome. There was an atmosphere of concentrated calm, like in an exam, which was helpful; steadying. Grace positioned herself near the back with JJ. Although she had studied this, both at home and in the BAU, this was her first major siege. She decided to let the boys do most of the talking. She wasn't in a mood to have to moderate her language.

"We call this the 'minimal loss' scenario," said Rossi, looking around at them all. "Every person we get out is a life saved. We won't save them all. All of us have to be prepared to… accept that situation."

As the team digested this, Morgan walked to the whiteboard, taking a pen from the desk.

"Cults are structured like pyramids," Morgan told him, drawing a diagram. "You got the leader at the top, diehard believers beneath. The biggest group – the base – followers. Women and children. These are the people we can save."

"The 'Trickle, Flow, Gush' strategy was designed to get base followers out," Hotch told them. "First one or two, then three or four, then as many as we can, as fast as we can. And if, at any point, it starts to go bad, we go in."

"The leaders are charismatic sociopaths, who target those most susceptible to their seduction," Rossi went on. "They have the ability to see what each person needs and then become that thing. We have to undermine the perception that we're the invading army, laying siege to their home."

"We'll lose the fatigues," Dan agreed. "Ranchers' clothing work for ya? Like we did at the Freeman standoff?"

"Perfect. Anything we can do to demilitarise the situation."

 _Good luck with that_ , Grace thought.

"Trouble is," she murmured to JJ in the back, "it sounds like this guy Cyrus is the one with the military ambitions."

0o0

It had taken them a short while to get things moving, which, under the circumstances, had felt more like an eternity. Eventually, they were ready to make the call. JJ had gone to corral the press, who were ranged about the hills, all vying for the best view. Grace stood beside Morgan, pressing the headset to her head with one hand and fiddling with the chain of the pocket watch her father had given her with the other.

Holding her breath as they waited for the people in the ranch to answer the phone, she wondered how it could still be so hot, even though the sun had gone down.

"Hello?" Rossi asked, as the call connected.

" _You killed my mommy and daddy!"_ a strong, young voice accused. _"Are you gonna kill me, too?"_

Grace briefly closed her eyes as the rest of the team exchanged worried glances.

 _That wasn't our fault_ , she reminded herself. _Cling to that._

"No one is gonna kill you, honey," Rossi assured her quickly.

" _This is Benjamin Cyrus. Who am I talking to?"_ asked a new voice.

 _Crocodile,_ Grace thought instinctively, as soon as she heard it. _Lurking in the water. Waiting for his chance._

"David Rossi," Rossi responded. "I'm an FBI agent. We sent the state police away. There's just us and the local sheriff. All we wanna do is resolve this before anyone else gets hurt."

" _Then leave us alone."_

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Benjamin," Rossi explained calmly. "One of the police bled out on the way to the hospital, so let's just stop this before things get worse. Please, just put down your guns and come out."

" _We're believers, Dave,"_ said Cyrus, with a blank, certain sort of voice that Grace thought was particularly chilling. _"We believe that God says what he means and means what he says."_

Grace chewed the end of her fingertips, frowning. She was heartily sick of people using religion to try to control and dominate others.

" _His laws don't depend on what state you live in,"_ Cyrus continued.

Morgan turned away, recognising, as the others had, that this one was a dangerous kind of crazy.

"I have no issue with your beliefs," Rossi assured him.

" _You don't, but the state does,"_ Cyrus pointed out.

"I can't answer for other people."

" _Well, God will answer for everyone in the final battle I have foreseen."_

 _That was ominous,_ Grace reflected. _He wants this. He didn't know when it would be, but he's wanted it for a long time. This is his vindication._

 _And Prentiss and Reid are in the middle of that._

"That's why I'm here," Rossi told him. "To make sure that this is not that final battle."

" _We shall see."_

"Now, the three child services workers," Rossi began, carefully ignoring the implications of those three words.

" _One of them is dead,"_ said Cyrus, at once.

Everyone froze, guiltily praying that the deceased was not their friend.

" _It wasn't us."_

Once again, Grace cursed the name of Jim Wells as the agents around her shook their heads and shifted on the spot, agitated. They needed a name – and they needed it not to be BAU.

"I need a name," Rossi said, almost apologetically, playing to Cyrus's tune. "To inform the family."

If he wanted to be a martyr, he had to be perceived as acting fairly.

" _Her name was Nancy Lund."_

It was awful, because the woman had had every right to a long and happy life, and she had friends and family, who would be devastated. But the knowledge that their two friends were alive was powerfully distracting for the four agents ranged around the table. They all sagged with relief.

"Okay," said Rossi, sounding remarkably unaffected, given his current expression. "Now please, Benjamin, send out your wounded. I promise you they'll be well taken care of."

" _With enough supplies we can tend to our own,"_ Cyrus told him.

"Okay, I need a few hours to put it together," Rossi told him. "I'll bring them up myself at first light."

Cyrus hung up and Grace walked a few paces, her face turned away, thinking about her friends. They were both so clever and so kind, each in their own way. Grace's face clouded; while she was terrified for Emily in the same way as she had been for Garcia when that awful cop had shot her in the chest, there was something about the thought that Spencer was bleeding to death somewhere in those anonymous looking ranch buildings that had her out of her guard.

Angrily, she pushed the thought away.

This was exactly why colleagues should never get involved.

0o0

"They could take you hostage," Dan observed, calmly.

He and Morgan were fitting various bits of spy equipment together at the table, ready to conceal them in the supplies Rossi had offered Cyrus. Reassured that her friends were okay, JJ had been persuaded to go to a hotel and sleep, if only for the sake of the baby.

"I gotta confirm the kids, Prentiss and Reid are okay," Rossi told him.

"Rossi, at least let me go with you," Morgan entreated.

"No," Rossi refused. He took out his gun and handed it to Morgan. "This is about building trust. I go alone."

"I want the parabolic mics fixed on every window in that structure," Torre called, to one of his subordinates.

"It won't pick up much, they have blinds on all the windows," the other man said. "Unless they're shouting, the glass won't vibrate enough for us to get an audio."

"Well, if they're not shouting, these bugs'll pick 'em up," Dan reasoned. "At least until the batteries die."

"Assuming they don't spot them," Grace murmured.

She was having a hard time feeling positive right now.

Rossi nodded. "That's a chance we'll have to take."

"How familiar are agents Prentiss and Reid with our playbook?" Dan asked.

Hotch shrugged. "The BAU wrote the handbook. They'll know that we're trying to get ears in there at all times."

"Good." Dan nodded. "Let's hope they can get these people talkin'."

"They will."


	7. Self Fulfilling Prophecy

**Essential listening: Judas, by Lady Gaga**

 **0o0**

Dawn had been arriving for some time, but Dave let it get fully light before he loaded up the truck with supplies and drove the remaining five hundred feet to the front steps of the ranch. No point taking undue risks.

He took the first box out of the back of the sheriff's pick-up and started up the steps, trying not to walk with too much caution. His peripheral vision told him that there was no one visible, but there he could feel his skin prickling; there were a lot of pairs of eyes on him, hidden in the buildings.

Shifting the box slightly, he knocked on the door of the chapel. A reasonable looking man with a beard and a lumberjack shirt opened it; reasonable, except for the flicker of something close to excitement in his eyes that told Dave he was enjoying himself.

"Dave?" he asked. "I'm ben. Come on in."

Dave passed through the door, feeling very exposed. There were guards with machine guns at intervals along the walls of the chapel; Cyrus's die-hards. The people in the pews didn't seem afraid of them, only of him. Brainwashing at its finest.

Behind him, he watched as Cyrus looked outside. He took a couple of steps outside to see that all was well. He didn't balk at the bloodstains, but ran his eye over the horizon. Dave wondered how long he'd been planning for this. Apparently satisfied that the supply run hadn't been a diversion, Cyrus picked up the battering ram the state police had left and turfed it down the front steps.

He came back in while Dave was being frisked. Satisfied, the two die-hards stepped back, taking their positions by the door again.

Cyrus gestured towards the people in the church as he and Dave strolled down the aisle together. "The children," he said. "And, our guests."

Dave's eyes fell, for a moment, on two familiar shapes on one side of the room. They looked alert, unhurt and relatively calm. His friends met his gaze for a moment, then looked away, feigning disinterest. No one in that chapel needed to know what or who they were, or they would be in even deeper trouble.

"I'd hoped you'd let me take the children," said Dave, walking past.

"No," said Cyrus, shaking his head. "They're our protection. I remember Waco. We all do."

The two men came to a natural halt before the altar.

"This isn't Waco," Dave told him, watching the other man's expression carefully.

Cyrus paused, considering. "They stay for now." He took a bible from the hands of a little girl – probably the one Dave had spoken to the night before. She was the only child of about her age. Had she been with her parents, he wondered, when they were killed? "While I pray for God's guidance. Please don't try to force us out."

"No one's gonna try to force you out of here, trust me," said Dave. _Until we know the kids are safe_ , he added, mentally including Prentiss and Reid in that category.

"Trust is earned," Cyrus remarked.

"It is." Dave spared the barest of glances for his friends before he matched Cyrus's steps back to the front door.

"Tell them I'm not crazy," Cyrus asked him, with sinister sincerity. "Tell them I'm just a man livin' by God's law."

He was trying to impress his followers now, making sure that if anyone survived they would remember him as a man with a cause.

"I will." Dave offered him his hand to shake and after a moment's thought, Cyrus took it.

Outside, he felt curiously unclean. He brought the rest of the boxes to the door and handed them to the guards, mulling over the man's behaviour. Cyrus was going to take this all the way if he could. On the way back, Dave tried to drive casual, but his heart was racing from the glimpse of his friends and the certainty that they weren't going to get out of this without further bloodshed.

0o0

Back in the command shed, the rest of the team were huddled around another bank of audio equipment; as soon as the HRS technician tuned it in (when they could see that Rossi was clear), the sound came through.

There were voices and footsteps, and the rustle of the boxes. It took a few moments for the brain to sort through them and the technician to boost the voices.

Morgan punched the air – it had worked! That was the first good news they'd had in more than a day. It was a small measure of relief, but they needed to focus; they needed to listen.

Grace grabbed his arm, shushing him like she would a younger brother. He grabbed her arm right back.

" _We are celebrating,"_ said Cyrus's voice. _"Everyone drinks, everyone rejoices, because today we are one day closer to being with Him."_

Everyone tensed. One step forward, one step back.

"You know what that sounds like," said Morgan, tightly.

" _Trust in God with all your heart," Cyrus continued. "Lean not on your own understandings. Trust in mine. Acknowledge Him in all things and He will guide your way."_

"He's grandstanding," Grace disagreed, shaking her head.

" _Drink to acknowledge Him and I will guide our way."_

There was a pause; the sound of long, slow footsteps on sprung wood – the chapel floor. In her mind's eye, Grace imagined them drinking. Rossi hurried back in, making Morgan turn sharply. She stepped apart from him, conscious of her own agitation.

"Reid and Prentiss are okay," Rossi told them, at once.

"What about Cyrus?" Morgan asked.

"He's too calm." Rossi frowned, shaking his head. "It – it's like he was waiting for this to happen. And now that it has, he feels vindicated."

" _We will be with him soon,"_ Cyrus went on, interrupting their thoughts _. "We drank the poison together."_

The people in the hall gasped; they could hear them over the audio. Everyone in the control shed started – not unreasonably – to panic.

" _Mothers, fathers, children. Though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death – we fear no evil. For thou art with us."_

"This doesn't fit!" Rossi exclaimed. "I looked him in the eye! He was calm, lucid!"

Hotch shook his head. "They're committing mass suicide!"

"No," said Grace vehemently. "He's bluffing – he doesn't want a room full of bodies." She turned to Rossi. "You said it was like he was waiting for this – he wants the big show, not the quick exit. Poison's not his style! There's not enough people watching!"

Hotch shook his head again. "This is for real."

"You don't know that for sure!" Rossi cried.

"Rossi, he just said it!" Morgan snapped.

"We're ready to go," said Dan Torre, hurrying over in the kind of heightened sense of calm that Grace recognised from SWAT.

She got to her feet, feeling panicked. This was all wrong.

"If we go in there, people are gonna die!" Rossi argued.

"They're already dying!" Hotch retorted.

"No, wait! We have to be sure!" They couldn't go in. Not now, not like this; it would be a massacre. Across the room, the door to the control shed slammed shut of its own accord, raising a small cloud of dust from the ceiling. "He's testing them! He didn't tell them about the poison before they drank – this is a loyalty thing! It has to be!"

" _And God will wipe the tears from their eyes, and there will be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. And there will be no more pain, for all of the former things have passed away."_

Cyrus's voice came out of the radio, sinuous and persuasive; Grace wished he would just shut the hell up.

Morgan got to his feet. "We have to go!"

"No!" Grace cried again. Behind them, unnoticed, papers flew off the desk and onto the floor.

"Jim Jones pulled the same stunt!" Rossi argued. "They did a test run just like this years before they did the real thing!"

Hotch met Dan's eyes. "Prepare your men to go in."

The other man stalked off to make the final arrangements.

" _Be still. There was no poison."_

Grace hissed, "There!"

"Dan!" Hotch called, stopping him.

" _Instead, a test of faith," Cyrus preached. "Because your adversary, the Devil," he shouted, raising his voice to thunderous effect, "walketh about as a roaring lion! Choosing whom he may devour. Watch each other – for signs of weakness. You are your brothers' keeper."_

"Son of a bitch," Morgan muttered weakly.

"When will people learn that just because someone ends a word with 'eth' it doesn't make them an emissary of a deity?" Grace asked the ceiling, angrily.

For a moment, the lights in the shed flickered.

Hotch looked up at Dan, wearily. "Tell 'em to stand down."

"Yes sir," said Torre. He left as everyone rubbed their faces or looked at the ceiling in sheer relief.

JJ, looking harried, came in. "Former sect leader's here," she told them, then caught sight of their faces.

Morgan looked at each his colleagues and made a decision. "I got it."

Hotch and Rossi went outside for a more private confab and JJ stared after them, nonplussed

"What happened?"

"False alarm," Grace said, and told her about the loyalty test.

"Oh my God!"

Grace nodded soberly. "I need some air."

Leaving JJ staring at the audio equipment, she went outside and walked up the road a way, desperately needing to breathe. Her fear was getting the better of her, she knew, and that could have interesting consequences when you threw a little magic into the mix. There was a fury inside her today, and she knew exactly why. If Prentiss had been in there alone, she would have been angry and scared, but not like this.

Grace kicked at a stone, feeling guilty as all hell about that.

Her brain felt hot and strung out, like parts of it were escaping from her. It was a symptom of her helplessness – but knowing that didn't make it less uncomfortable.

She glared out at the ranch, trying to resist imagining things like Spencer's face with a bullet hole through the forehead, or going to the market without him, or pizza and Dr Who on her own, or the chair at his desk being permanently empty.

It was impossible.

The dust around her stirred up into a small, personal whirlwind and she took several deep, long breaths, forcing herself to calm down. She needed to be in control; _they_ needed her to be in control – but she felt so helpless. He was less than five hundred metres away and there wasn't a thing she could do to reach him. It made her fingers itch. Something hard and constrictive had taken up residence in her chest and she didn't know what to do about it.

Raising a hand, she made the dust storm around her subside.

This was why having a relationship with a colleague was a bad idea.

 _If he gets out of there alive,_ she thought, _I'm going to make it clear to him that we can never be anything more than friends. To us both._

Angry and not very much calmer, she started back down the hill.

0o0

Leo Kane had everything the leader of a sect should have: the beard, the long hair, the piercing blue eyes. Even in penitentiary orange there was an arresting kind of charisma to him. Derek could see why people would follow and like him.

Hell, he'd read his file, and _he_ liked him.

There was something reassuringly flawed about him – a humanity that Benjamin Cyrus didn't possess. Nothing about him said 'sociopath'.

As soon as Derek had told him who he was here to discuss, Kane had opened right up, immediately dropping any pretence of being unforthcoming with the authorities.

"Charles Mulgrew is his real name," he said. "Charles Mulgrew. His mother was five months pregnant when she showed up at our doorstep. He turned out to be one of the smart ones. Amazing memory that kid had. Anything he read he could read back to you – and he did. Mouthy little son of a bitch."

"Why'd he leave the ranch?" Derek asked, watching the other man closely.

"When he was seventeen, a couple of our… young girls came to me and – and said that he'd been…" He shrugged, the universal gesture for 'You know'. "Messing with them."

It was pretty clear this topic was painful for Kane. It was written all over his face.

 _He still feels responsible for those girls,_ Derek realised. _Even after all these years._

"You mean sexually."

"Yes sir, I do," said Kane, relieved he'd got his meaning across without having to go into detail. "Now don't get me wrong, I'm a libertarian, but – those little girls were too young for a seventeen year old to be messing with."

Derek nodded sombrely. "So, you kicked him out for that?"

"Yes sir, I did."

 _There_ was the intensity, but all of it pain at the hurt this kid had caused. And all of it genuine.

Derek nodded again, impressed. He hadn't expected Kane to be so moral.

"His mother took him to Kentucky," Kane continued, unprompted. "Hadn't heard anything from him for years, then when he finally showed up again he said his mother had died, he'd found God and he wanted to come home."

"How does a kid like that get rid o' _you_?" Derek asked, crossing his arms.

"One day he came to me and said God told him that I should leave the ranch," Kane told him darkly. "I said, if God felt that way, God could tell me himself. He put a gun to my head – and said 'He just did'."

 _That would do it._

Leo had seen how crazy he was. Hell, Derek would have left, too.

"It took me twenty years to build that ranch," Kane told him quietly. "I'll do anything I can to help you send that ungrateful son of a bitch straight to hell."

Derek narrowed his eyes. "I need a map."

0o0

It was baking hot outside now. Grace felt as if she was being parboiled. Although everyone on the team had already stripped any unnecessary clothing off, she was still roasting, and there wasn't anything else she could take off. She was just beginning to wonder if anyone would mind her cutting the bottom half of her suit trousers off when Garcia called.

Morgan, always only a few mental heartbeats away from their quirky friend, answered and put her on speaker.

" _Charles Mulgrew, convicted in Kentucky at the age of eighteen. Three counts, statutory rape,"_ the technician reeled off.

"Quelle surprise," Grace grunted, gratefully accepting the bottle of ice water JJ handed her and immediately applying it to the back of her neck.

"So, we need to talk to the warden," Morgan told them.

" _Way ahead of you, honey," Garcia chirped. "Mr Kentucky warden said that once inside, Mulgrew found religion, became a model citizen."_

"Well it's not that hard to behave when you're in protective custody the whole time," Morgan observed.

"General population's a rough place for a child molester," Hotch put in.

" _No, no – I don't think you guys understand,"_ Garcia interrupted. _"He was a MODEL citizen. This guy volunteered at the prison hospital – the AIDS ward. He was reading to prisoners who were dying of HIV."_

"He got a captive audience, realised they'd listen to him and found his calling," said Grace. "He could perfect his technique with the truly vulnerable and no one could stop him. Sometimes prison is just a training centre for whack-jobs."

Finally, they had something they could really use – even if it was bad news.

"Good stuff," Morgan told her.

" _Damn straight!"_ Garcia agreed at once. _"Now get our friends back, baby!"_

She hung up.

"Well, this makes things worse," Rossi mused; Hotch and Grace nodded, frowning.

"What, that he was a model citizen?" Morgan queried, looking at him askance.

Rossi shook his head. "That he's been to prison."

"He knows what happens to child molesters there."

Rossi nodded.

"Fair bet he'd rather die than go back to that," Grace reflected.

"If the current sexual allegations are true and he thinks we know it…" Hotch shook his head. "He's not comin' outta there."

"Then we'll have to make him think he's not going back," Rossi suggested.

Hotch nodded, looking frustrated. "JJ, I need you to release a press statement saying that we have absolutely no evidence of sexual allegations…" He caught her expression as she came over and trailed off.

JJ looked _pissed._

"Oh gods, now what?" Grace asked, taking stock of the other woman's body language.

"You need to see this," JJ said, opening a window on the laptop and turning it towards them all.

It was the same reporter as before, with that same mix of appropriate worry and pure, journalistic excitement. Grace craned over Rossi's shoulder to get a better look.

" _Now well into its second day, the standoff in the separatarian sect ranch has been taken over by the FBI. There was much speculation with regards the hostages, but anonymous sources inside the state attorney's general's office have told us there is an undercover FBI agent currently being held inside the separatarian sect ranch. Hostage negotiators say they are making headway with the sect's leader and are hoping for a peaceful outcome. There is still no word why an undercover agent was sent in alone…"_

Around the table, everybody exploded; each of them peeling away and swearing, like the laptop had formed the centre of a small, very specific magnetic field that only repelled angry BAU agents.

Rossi threw up his hands in disgust. "He just delivered them a death sentence!"

"Anonymous sources my arse!" Grace growled. "If I ever see Jim Wells – I swear!"

"I'm gonna shut that stupid, son of a bitch journalist down," JJ hissed, uncharacteristically foul-mouthed, heading for one of the SUVs.

One of the Hostage Rescue and Support team members wisely dodged out of her way, not wanting to get in the way of a furious, pregnant woman.

"Take someone with you," called Grace. "You're pregnant, you shouldn't be shoving a microphone up someone's arse on your own."

JJ span around, grabbed the shoulder of the HRS guy who had narrowly avoided her, and towed him to the Yuke.

The rest of the team ran into the shed and jammed headphones on in time to hear Emily (who else could it be?) being dragged up the stairs by her hair. She was screaming – the low, keening sound of someone in pain, but who was doing their best to keep it under control.

Grace's heart leapt into her mouth.

" _I told you not to put me in this position!"_ Cyrus shouted, murderously angry _._

There was the sound of a punch and Emily cried out.

Everyone reacted – their hands went up and out, they shifted positions, their jaws locking. None of them made eye contact with one another; they wanted to help their friend, but they knew that was impossible. She cried out again, the impact sounding more like a kick this time.

Grace's face twisted in empathy with her friend, her blood alternating between the red hot of fury and the ice cold of fear.

It was awful to listen to.

"We gotta go in," Hotch said, in obvious distress.

"We'd be risking the lives of everyone in there," Rossi cautioned, his face a mask of horror.

" _Get up!"_ Cyrus yelled.

Emily yelled in pain, making the rest of the team tense and whimper in sympathy. She cried out again as what sounded like another punch connected with her. Then they heard glass shattering, as if she'd been thrown into something; she yelped, painfully.

Hotch shot to his feet, his hands flying to his headphones as if he wanted to tear them off his head, but he couldn't. Whatever happened to Emily right now, they had to know.

Grace bit her lip, imaging all kinds of awful things happening to her friend. It was surreal, like something that was happening very far away. She shifted from foot to foot, feeling oddly disconnected from herself, and from the others.

" _Proverbs 20:30 tells us, 'blows and wounds cleanse away evil'!"_

A loud bang snapped through the headphones, like someone had been bodily thrown against a door or shelving unit.

Morgan closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head from side to side, as if this would make the beating their friend was taking stop.

"I don't like this!" Grace muttered, uselessly.

"Come on, man!" Morgan hissed.

Emily's voice rang out through their headphones – urgent and pained, but strong. _"I can take it!"_

" _Oh, you can take it?"_

 _Smack!_

Emily cried out, sounding badly hurt this time. Hotch got up again, ready to run in there himself if he had to.

"W-wait, wait – listen to what she's saying!" Rossi urged.

" _I can take it,"_ she said again, more quietly, and Morgan shook his head, wretched.

"She's antagonisin' him!"

"No," Grace exclaimed, catching Rossi's drift. "Listen!"

"She's not talkin' to him!" the older agent told them.

"She's talking to us," Hotch realised, looking pained. "She's telling us not to come in."

"You hold on, Emily," Grace breathed. "You just hold on!"

" _Pride comes before the fall!"_ Cyrus taunted.

As the sounds of violence recommenced, Morgan threw his headset down, unable to listen anymore. When it finally subsided, there was an awful moment of silence. It seemed to stretch on for minutes. Grace met Rossi's frightened gaze over the top of the transceiver, her mouth opening in horror.

It couldn't be – she couldn't be – he couldn't have –

" _Tie her up. Put her upstairs."_

Grace closed her eyes, a tide of cold relief flooding through her. She heard Emily groan as someone roughly pulled her to her feet. She sounded pained and exhausted – but alive.

Silently, and with a force that made the cold coffee on the table boil, Grace vowed that one way or another, Benjamin Cyrus would not be coming out of that ranch alive.

They waited, tersely, for anything more, but for a long fifteen minutes there was only background chatter; parents soothing children, people expressing shock or foreknowledge of the presence of an FBI agent; hushed male voices discussing guns and where to put them; children reading scripture; the restless scrape of chairs.

Finally, in another room, Cyrus spoke again: " _Bring the other one_."

"Reid," Hotch breathed.

"Hang in there, pretty boy," said Morgan, pulling the headphones back on.

Grace bit at the very tips of her fingers as they and Cyrus waited. Beside her, Rossi frowned down at his own hands; Hotch fidgeted; Morgan screwed his eyes tightly shut.

" _Did you know she was FBI?"_ Cyrus asked darkly.

There was a pause where they imagined Reid staring the man down. Grace gripped the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. Although he was a devilish card player, Reid was an awful liar, nine times out of ten.

She hoped to gods this was the tenth.

He must have swallowed, because his first syllable sounded oddly constrained. _"Nancy told me the woman was a child abuse interview expert from Denver,"_ he said, flannelling competently. Grace allowed her eyes to close again as Hotch rested his head on his arms. She shook her head slightly; gods but it did her good to hear his voice. _"Four years I've worked with her, Nancy never lied to me before."_

" _As far as you know,"_ Cyrus reminded him, confident in his own power; that confidence had been badly shaken by Emily's presence in their midst. _"Their law says that a fifteen-year-old girl is a child. Fifteen years ago, that same law said a fourteen-year-old was an adult. Have children changed so much in fifteen years?"_

"That man could sell snake oil to snakes," Grace murmured.

Though she was well aware of the danger Spencer was still in (and Emily too), if Cyrus was preaching, it was because he thought he could get inside Reid's head. And a person had to be breathing for him to do that.

" _I can't tell you the number of times I've investigated abuse charges against small religious groups,"_ said Spencer, candidly _. "Almost all of them turn out to be false."_

Mentally, Grace applauded. He was thinking fast, playing Cyrus at his own game.

" _What do you think of that?"_ Cyrus asked.

Spencer must have shrugged; you could hear it in his voice. _"Doesn't really matter what I think."_

" _Does to me,"_ said Cyrus, trying to draw him in.

" _Why?"_

" _Because God wants to save you,"_ he answered simply _"I mean, that's why he sent you here, that's the reason."_

There was a pause; Grace imagined Spencer pretending to consider this. _"On the next call, you should – test them. Test the negotiator. Make him prove that he isn't a liar."_

The ghost of a smile flitted across her face as she wondered what they'd do if Spencer ever turned his considerable talents to evil.

" _How would you suggest I do that?"_ Cyrus asked, sounding far from certain _._

" _Ask the identity of the FBI agent,"_ Spencer suggested.

" _But we already know her identity,"_ said another voice – probably one of Cyrus's trusted men.

" _They don't know that,"_ Cyrus pointed out, thinking.

" _Yeah, but the FBI would never tell us!"_

Reid made an effort to persuade them. _"They keep on askin' you to release people – it – tell 'em you'll release a kid, and you won't harm the agent, and if they really care about the children they have to tell you –"_

" _You're tryin' to get us to release a child,"_ snapped the second-in-command, shutting him down.

Grace bit her lip.

" _I – it's one kid!"_ Spencer protested _. "If they don't hold up on their end of the deal you'll know they can't be trusted!"_

Cyrus thought about it for a moment. _"He has a point."_

"Reid has him," Rossi commented.

" _What is it, Christopher?"_ Cyrus asked, responding to body language none of them could see.

At the other end of the mic, 'Christopher' sighed, clearly uncomfortable. _"Some have been talkin' about – leaving."_

" _Leaving?"_ Cyrus repeated, sounding astonished.

" _Yeah,"_ said Christopher quietly.

There was a pregnant pause.

" _Wake the baby,"_ Cyrus ordered, sounding grim. _"Let's let them meet the orphan that they made."_


	8. I Hate the Waiting

**Essential listening: Fader, by Temper Trap**

0o0

Although all of them wanted to make contact as soon as they feasibly could, Rossi had set a strict hour-long interval, which was long enough that Cyrus and his acolytes wouldn't find it suspicious. It was also just long enough for them all to go insane.

Torre had not-quite-ordered them to sit down and eat the takeout one of his men had gone and collected. They had obeyed, sullen and quiet. None of them had felt like eating except JJ, who was eating more for her tiny tap dancer than for herself.

After, Grace had laid her head on her arms for twenty minutes, unable to watch the clock any longer. It wasn't quite the same thing as sleep, but it was dreamless. When she opened her eyes the deep, echoing feeling that had been with her was a little further off again, though if anything she was even more tired.

Now they were standing around the phone again, outside the command hut, sweltering.

"How you doin' today, Ben?" Rossi asked when the cult leader picked up.

By way of an answer, Cyrus sighed. _"I will release a child if you tell me the identity of the FBI agent. I promise no harm will come to them from this point forward."_

"I can't give you that information," Rossi bluffed.

" _I will send the child out now."_

Grace raised an eyebrow. He wasn't hanging around.

Hotch pointed at Morgan and Torre, who ran for the nearest truck. A tiny girl, no older than four, toddled out the front of the church. Uncertainly, she walked forward, as she had been instructed.

"God, she's so small," Grace murmured, watching as the two men drove out to meet her. Morgan gathered her up and the little girl clung to his neck, as trusting as she was beautiful.

"I'm takin' a big risk here Ben," said Rossi, his eyes on the child.

" _Trust is earned."_

"Her name is Emily Prentiss," Rossi effortlessly lied. "She came in with two child service workers to talk to the girls."

There was a pause and they held their breath, hoping that he had bought Reid's scant cover and that this wasn't a ploy on his part.

" _There's a good chance we can work this out, Dave,"_ said Cyrus, at last. _"I'm gonna provide another sign of good faith."_

Rossi nodded, though of course he couldn't see it. "You're doin' a good thing here."

He hung up. On the audio from the bugs they heard him address his lieutenant: _"Assemble everyone in the church. Get Agent Prentiss down here."_

0o0

Child services were an hour and a half's drive away and JJ was still absent, (hopefully) doing something unspeakable to a journalist, so Grace volunteered to look after the little girl. She had done it without thinking – just a thing that needed doing that she could do – and now Lily was sitting quite happily on her lap, eating her way through a bag of Cheetos that JJ wouldn't begrudge her. They were at the back of the command area, away from any guns or noise, and Grace hated the feeling of being cut off from events while her friends were still in peril.

Lily, however, was helping.

When she had first taken her off Morgan and walked away from the main group, she had been momentarily paralysed by the realisation that this was a child – a baby. The first child she'd held since losing Michael. It had made her chest hurt, and for a moment she hadn't known what to do, until Lily had told her in a quiet voice that she was hungry.

Handed something practical to deal with, Grace had hunted for snacks with her, and come up with apple juice and Cheetos – something Lily had apparently never had before and immediately loved. She had got her name out of her then, and managed to persuade her to stay close; Lily had taken things into her own hands by reaching her arms up to Grace expectantly.

The trust of small children astonished her.

They talked primarily about food. Lily liked ice-cream. Strawberry was her favourite, and she had wanted to know what Grace liked: mint choc-chip or butterscotch and fudge. Lily hadn't known what those were, either. Grace told her to ask child services for them – they were unlikely to deny her anything just now, after what the poor mite had been through.

Grace got her some paper and a couple of felt tips that someone at HRS would probably miss eventually, and Lily happily drew cows and dogs, and her parents. Grace drew too, grateful to have something in her hands. She stopped when she realised she had been drawing stick figures of the team. Lily examined the picture carefully, and then added herself holding Grace's hand.

"Do you have a little girl like me?"

The question came out of nowhere, catching her off guard; she stared at the back of Lily's head for a moment. Still, the girl had been through a lot, and maybe it would help.

"No," she said quietly. "I had a little boy – but he died."

Lily twisted, looking up at her with a face full of innocence. "He's in heaven, with my mommy and daddy?"

"I… I suppose he is, yes," Grace told her, her voice a little strangled.

Lily nodded, a slight downturn to her mouth.

"Don't be sad," she said, patting Grace's hand with her own, slightly sticky one. "They'll look after each other. They'll be happy there."

0o0

They were surprised that he'd so willingly let so many followers go. Cyrus could easily have shot the ones who failed the loyalty test, but instead he'd let them walk out the front door with their belongings. Except he wanted people to see him as a martyr – a good man.

Grace watched them climb into the minibus that had arrived to take them to a state facility where they could be questioned, cared for and housed until they found somewhere else to go. The woman from child services had arrived with the minibus; Grace waved goodbye to Lily as the bus pulled away.

She hurried over to the bank of audio equipment and grabbed a headset as soon as it was out of sight.

" _We will surrender tomorrow at noon,"_ Cyrus told Rossi succinctly. _"I want the press there to make sure that we're treated fairly. We'll discuss the details at our 7.30 a.m. call. I'll see you then, Dave."_

Grace shivered unwillingly, unable to stop herself thinking of the psychotic computer from _2001: A Space Odyssey_.

"I'll look forward to it."

" _Oh, and one more thing – could you send some food in?"_

"Sure," Rossi agreed, licking his lips – suddenly wary. "What would you like?"

" _Fried chicken, with all the fixin's,"_ said Cyrus, at once.

"You got it."

He hung up and the assembled agents shared a look.

"That was easy," said Morgan, slowly.

"Too easy," Grace nodded. "The media presence, high noon – he's looking for his own personal apocalypse, with him at centre stage. You know, of all the prisoners executed on death row, more than a third of them ask for fried chicken for their last meal? It's second only in popularity to the cheeseburger."

She opened her mouth to add a statistic, realised that she was overcompensating for the lack of Reid, and closed it again.

"He's countin' down," Morgan agreed.

Hotch waved them to silence as the audio crackled back on.

" _I don't understand,"_ Christopher complained. _"Why did you let them go?"_

" _They weren't prepared to do what needs to be done,"_ Spencer said.

" _You're not one of us! You don't know what it takes to be prepared!"_ Christopher snapped.

" _Listen to him,"_ Cyrus encouraged. _"Tell him."_

" _They failed the test,"_ explained Reid. _"They – they had a chance to prove their faith when Cyrus told them they'd sacrificed themselves for God, but – instead they showed they weren't worthy. That's why he wants the media, to bear witness to your true final act of sacrifice."_

Across the table, Hotch nodded. JJ, who hadn't been present when they'd heard his voice before, closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands, relieved that they had a tangible proof that Spencer, at least, was alright.

" _How do you know that?"_ Christopher asked, perplexed.

" _I'm – I'm always looking for signs of things to come,"_ said Reid. It seemed to Grace that he was choosing his words very carefully.

"Reid's talking to us," Rossi exclaimed urgently, springing to his feet. "He wants a sign when we're coming in. He's tellin' us this is it – time has run out. We gotta go in!"

0o0

Reid's message had galvanised everyone. Amongst the general scramble for guns and body armour, Torre and the team were having a bit of a confab. They couldn't move yet, of course, but they needed to be ready. The sudden movement was helping. As he looked around, Aaron could already see various members of his team unbending slightly, grateful for the opportunity to do something useful, even for a little while.

He hoped it was enough – the thought of Emily or Spencer not coming out of that ranch made his palms sweat. They'd had too many close calls already.

"Drugging the food's not an option, because of the children," he observed. "We have to go in."

"Best time to hit 'em is when they're least mentally prepared," said Rossi thoughtfully.

"3 a.m.," Torre said immediately. "Bio-rhythms are at their low point then."

"We need a diversion, somethin' that plays into his expectations," Morgan remarked.

"Well, he's expecting to be a martyr," Grace reminded them.

They thought for a moment.

"Cyrus brought up Waco," Dan recalled.

"Right," Rossi agreed.

"I know exactly how to use that," said Dan. "We need some Humvees."

He moved away to make a call.

"The plan depends on Reid and Prentiss separating the die-hards from the followers," Aaron reminded them.

Morgan nodded. "And delaying Cyrus's die-hards from reacting to our assault."

"That's not my main concern," said Aaron, casting around the control shed for anything useful. "Reid and Prentiss know what they need to do."

"So what _is_ your concern?" asked Morgan.

"Letting them know when we're coming," he explained tensely. "The whole thing hinges on them being ready for us at 3 a.m."

"C'mon guys, quick," said Dan, addressing the guys deploying a second wave of surveillance equipment in Cyrus's chosen final meal. "We gotta get those bugs in the boxes before it gets too cold."

Aaron's eyes narrowed, resting on a foil takeout lid. He grabbed it. "Perfect!" Grabbing a pen, he wrote _'New owners! New hours! Open 'til 3 am!'_ on it, hoping one of his agents would see it, recognise his slightly anarchic handwriting and understand.

Morgan joined him and clapped him on the back when he saw Aaron's handiwork. "Let's hope it's just that easy."

0o0

The food had barely made it to the front door when Dan hurried over to Derek, a walkie-talkie in hand.

Derek looked up from the map Leo Kane had drawn for them to see the usually calm man in a state of great excitement. "What is it?"

"Prentiss – she's talkin' to us!" Dan told him.

Derek's heart leapt as – sure enough – Emily's voice came out of the walkie-talkie.

" _If you can hear me, I know you're coming,"_ she said, calmly repeating the same words. It did Derek good to hear it after the beating she had taken. She sounded unfazed and in control. _"I can try to get the women and children down to the tunnel, but I need to know when you're coming."_

He met Torre's eyes.

"Let's go!" the other man exclaimed.

Together, they scrambled to the nearest weapon store; Derek grabbed a rifle with a laser sight and they ran low to a patch of scrubby higher ground, a little closer to the ranch. The tech had been able to tell them which window he was picking the signal up from, and now they were closer, they could see the heel of Emily's boot, carefully hooking the blinds out of the way so the parabolic mic would work.

 _That's my girl!_ Derek thought, with a rush of deep affection for his friend.

Calmly, she repeated her message over and over; Derek lined up the laser sight with the window and let the beam shoot right into the room she was in, over the top of her boot.

" _If you can hear me, I know you're coming. I can –"_

He heard her pause – she must have seen the light.

" _Okay, okay, I got you!"_ she said, and Derek sent up a silent prayer of thanks. _"What time?"_

Carefully he turned the sight on and off three times.

" _3 a.m.?"_

He turned the beam back on full and shifted the point up and down, as if he was nodding.

" _Understood!"_ She sighed, sounding relieved. Urgently, she continued, _"Reid is on the first floor somewhere, with Cyrus. Please, remember there are children here – someone's coming!"_

The boot disappeared sharply and Derek turned the sight off. He watched as a silhouette entered the room and sat, presumably beside his friend.

"Hold on, Emily," he murmured, watching the window for a long moment. "We're comin'."

0o0

JJ frowned at the quiet streets as she drove back to the hotel, telling herself over and over that Spencer and Emily would be just fine. They'd all been through worse. They would be _fine_.

It felt all kinds of wrong to be leaving her friends in a situation like this, but Hotch had insisted that she wasn't present for the raid, and she could kind of see his point. Not that she had admitted it. She had fought tooth and nail not to be sent away, and she would still have been there if she hadn't caught sight of Grace's expression.

The other woman had been watching the argument with the kind of haunted look in her eyes that made JJ stop and wonder. Grace was uneasy enough around her pregnancy for JJ to fill in some of the dots, and while she didn't like to speculate on the darker things that haunted her colleagues, she couldn't entirely help it.

She had to have lost a baby. There was no other explanation for her behaviour.

She had lost a baby, and from the way she had looked when she'd heard JJ argue for staying with the team – staying closer to danger – _and_ the way she had insisted JJ took someone with her to confront the asshole journalist who had given up their friends – _and_ the way she had protected her back in Lower Canaan…

Had she lost the baby at work?

She could well imagine her stubborn, fierce friend refusing to take herself off the front line if her friends were in danger – that same reluctance was in her, too.

The way Grace looked sometimes, when someone teased her about her time in England, or asked about her old team – there was an edge of pain there that suggested she hadn't had it easy. London to Washington was a long way to go, if you were leaving your whole world behind, and there were a limited number of reasons JJ could think of that might make a person do that. If she'd lost a child…

 _If I'd lost a child, I might never stop running,_ she thought, and shivered, one hand resting on her abdomen.

Inside of her, her son squirmed in response, turning over in his sleep.

JJ swallowed and hit the speed-dial button on her phone, flicking it onto speaker. When Will answered he sounded tired, but not groggy; she hadn't woken him. Good.

She just needed to hear his voice.

0o0

Dave walked slowly down the steps, one eye, as always, on the ranch at the end of the track. It was dark now, and the lights were up in the chapel. They were making preparations, just like the HRS unit. It would be a hard fight to dawn.

He wondered how Reid and Prentiss were doing.

In an effort to keep his head clear of the awful images that thought had elicited, he ran his eyes over the isolated pockets of people around the edges of the control compound. Pearce and Morgan were sitting on the bonnet of one of the Yukes, facing the ranch and laughing in a quiet, forced kind of way, pretending there was nothing wrong.

Hotch was leaning against the fence, alone. His body language was tense and closed off; highly agitated. Dave walked over to him, his hands in his pockets.

"I know I can't go in there," Aaron said, without turning around.

Dave nodded, understanding. "I'm goin'."

He let out a long breath, certain. In that building was where he needed to be.

Aaron, on the other hand, gulped air like he was drowning. "If something happens to Prentiss or Reid – I don't know…" his voice faltered. "I don't know." He shook his head.

Dave chewed the inside of his cheek. _Yeah_ , he thought. "You're not alone."

 _And neither are they._

0o0

They had been bantering for three quarters of an hour, and honestly, both of them were running out of topics. It was kind of a relief when Morgan sloped off for some coffee. Grace pulled up her legs and turned her gaze from the ranch up to the stars. They were easier to look at, for a start. She leaned back, her head resting on the windshield.

It reminded her of the nights she'd spent when she was a teenager, on the roof of her garage, just staring up into the black, wondering what was out there; wondering what was going on under those stars, all over the Earth.

Tonight, she couldn't force her mind to unwind that far – it was too focussed on all the bad things that could be happening to two of her closest friends, less than a stone's throw away.

If she had been in London and the higher ups wanted this dealt with quickly (and there were people like Kate Joyner, who knew what she and the other members of the UCU could do, on the senior action team) then she might have been allowed to just walk into the tunnels beneath the ranch and seriously fuck with the abductors, to the point where they would not be able to put up any resistance. Here, though, where the nation's press were camped out on the surrounding hills and two government bodies were keeping watchful eyes and ears trained on the ranch, that wasn't an option.

Even if Hotch had known the full extent of her unusual repertoire, it would have been impossible. The risk of hurting the others was just too great – and besides, she was, by now, rather out of practice.

Heaving a sigh of frustration, she took out the pocket watch her father had given her, turning the cool metal over and over in her hand.

Really, she was helpless.

And, not far away, two of her family were in abject peril.

 _Watch over them_ , she thought, her eyes on the stars. _Keep them safe._

The car bonnet creaked as someone leaned against the end of it. Grace didn't look: Hotch was still too agitated to interact with the rest of them, and would remain that way until the present crisis was over, one way or another. JJ was (by now) back at the hotel and probably too wired to sleep, and Morgan would have prodded her in the leg by now.

"Hi Rossi."

"Grace."

They stayed silent for a while, lost in their own thoughts.

"He's going to be okay, you know."

Grace frowned. "They," she corrected, not looking down.

"Yeah," said Rossi. "I know you're worried about Emily _and_ Reid, but we both know –"

"What?" Grace interrupted quickly, sitting up.

Rossi turned to her, levelling a careful, calculated stare in her direction.

 _Really?_ Grace thought. _You're going to do this_ now _?_

"We both know you care about Reid."

"I care about everyone on the team," she protested.

"I know that."

"Well then."

She crossed her arms, feeling very uncomfortable. Was she really that transparent?

"Look, I don't mean to pry," he backed up, watching her face. "Ignore me – what do I know?"

Grace sighed and slid to the edge of the bonnet, her legs dangling over the front of it.

"They'll be okay," she said firmly, though whether this was more for his benefit or for hers, she wasn't sure.

Rossi nodded and turned his piercing stare back out over the ranch. To Grace's immense surprise, he put an arm around her shoulders. Accepting that this was a unique situation and that they were both terrified for their friends, she leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment.

They were going to be okay. Both of them. Or there would be hell to pay.


	9. Heart Attack

**Essential listening: Wait, by The Beatles**

 **0o0**

Derek pulled on his body armour quickly and efficiently, and Pearce helped him plug in the ear piece, which was a bit of a pain in the ass if you'd forgotten to do that first. She and Hotch would be staying outside, helping the auxiliary members of the HRS field hostages (hopefully) and propel them towards the promised ambulances. He couldn't imagine having to hang back at a time like this, and one look at Pearce's closed, worried expression told him that it was a special kind of agony.

She hadn't complained though, knowing, as they all did, that people were needed outside as much as inside.

"Bring them back," she said in an undertone as he helped her fix up her own earpiece.

He grasped her arm by way of a promise and headed out to the assembly point where Dan Torre and Rossi were already waiting, nodding to Hotch as he hurried past.

Ahead of them, Humvees were already rumbling towards strategically visible points in front of the chapel and ranch complex, invading Cyrus's personal space and (hopefully) keeping his and his lieutenants' attention away from the tunnel. With any luck, none of them would suspect that Leo Kane was contactable – or that he would so readily give up their back door. He'd even labelled the individual rooms inside, with their purposes when he'd been head of the ranch.

Even though they were about to mount an armed invasion into a very hostile environment, Derek felt calmer now; now that they had something tangible to do.

A series of shots from the chapel made their heads snap up. Through the gloom, the penetration team could just make out Benjamin Cyrus, firing a machine gun straight up into the air.

"That's workin' then," Derek observed.

"He wants all the press watchin' this," Rossi agreed.

"Well then," said Dan, motioning for his men to move out, "let's give 'em a show!"

Together, Torre, Derek and Rossi hurried around the back of the ranch and into the tunnel. Torre threw a flashbang into it and they took the first guy down before he even knew they were there. The second man fell hard, but Derek was reasonably sure he was unconscious, rather than dead. They didn't want to have to kill anyone if they could help it, only keep them out of action until they all could be rounded up.

Soon, the air was full of the smoke of flashbangs. They threaded through the tunnel at some speed; so far, Kane's map was completely accurate. Thanking God for angry ex-cons, he turned a corner, Rossi two feet behind him, and suddenly Emily was there, followed by twenty or so women and children. She was covered in bruises, cuts – but she was upright.

"Emily – Emily, you alright?" Derek demanded, catching his friend's arm, probably painfully tight.

"They've wired explosives!" she burst out, limping past, trying to get the followers out as quickly as possible.

"Everyone! Everybody come on!" One of the women – presumably a friend Emily had made on the inside – was moving people along, taking charge. "Okay, this building's gonna blow up, if you love your children, get them out of here!"

"Let's go, this way!" Derek shouted, as Rossi and Torre started moving people down the tunnel.

"Come on, kids!" Emily exclaimed, her throat hoarse.

"Where's Reid?" Derek asked her.

"He's in the chapel with Cyrus!" she told him painfully.

Rossi joined them as the kids started to pour past them. "We gotta get you outta here!"

"No – we've gotta get Reid!" Emily cried, distraught.

"Prentiss, I will get Reid," Derek told her firmly. "Get outta here. Get to safety. Go now!"

"Cyrus didn't call for this!" A very angry teenager hissed at the woman moving people along – her mother, perhaps? "You _lied_ to me!"

"No!" the woman turned around and grabbed her daughter's shoulders. " _Cyrus_ lied to you!"

"I can't – I can't leave!" the girl shrieked and pushed her mother away. "He's my husband!"

She threw herself up the tunnel, back into the wired building.

"Hey!" Derek shouted, as she disappeared from sight.

"Jessie!" the woman screamed, launching herself after her.

"Ma'am! Ma'am!" He caught her around the waist as she screamed for Jessie.

Emily helped pull her back, then Rossi joined in.

"I will get her for you!" Derek shouted. "Rossi, get her outta here! Torre, you get your boys, let's do this, now!"

0o0

Gods but she hated the waiting.

She and Hotch had moved forward with the ambulances when Morgan, Rossi and the penetration team had gone in, keeping to the line behind the Humvees. She and the others weren't speaking; there was nothing left to say.

Gritting her teeth, she listened to the short bursts of radio chatter the team were allowing through. While there was an outside chance that Cyrus could listen in, they weren't going to give anything up over the airwaves.

Rossi radioed through a short burst, followed by two longer bursts: hostages were heading out through the tunnel. Grace hurried to meet them.

Before she even saw the first one, there was a burst of machine-gun fire. Instinctively, she ducked behind the door of a Humvee with the nearest HRS officer. They looked around; it must have been inside the ranch building somewhere – it didn't seem like they were under attack themselves.

"I think we're clear," said the HRS guy – Grace thought his name might be Rick. "I think we –"

 _BOOM._

The explosion rocked the entire valley.

It was as if someone had punched her with a giant fist, smacking her against the ground. By the time Grace picked herself up, wobbly, frightened women were leading children out of the entrance of the tunnel. She staggered to the first few, mentally yelling at her legs that they needed to start working _right now._

"Come on!" she shouted, as they coughed and spluttered, choking on the dust the explosion had freed. "This way, let's get you to the paramedics. Come on." She grabbed the first woman's arm, leading her towards the bank of vehicles.

Everywhere, kids were crying. It felt like a war zone.

Carefully, she kept her gaze firmly away from the ball of fire that had consumed the chapel, because that would mean thinking about the people that might still be inside it. Distantly, she heard Rossi's voice, and she turned towards that instead. He was guiding people along the line, towards the waiting medics, and a couple of feet behind him was –

"Emily!"

She stumbled, and Grace caught hold of her. She was badly beaten and coughing, but she was okay enough to get herself to somewhere safe. Grace let her move on.

 _No Morgan. No Reid._

"Come on, keep moving," she said firmly, her back to the burning buildings.

 _Keep people moving, keeping not looking back,_ she thought, a grim mask across her features.

She felt strangely disassociated; numb. Grace fell back on her training, which was what it was there for. Worry about the things you can control first, that was the key.

Behind her, she heard Emily's plaintive shout. "Morgan?"

 _Keep people moving. Do the job._

Grace turned in time to see her stumble up towards the chapel, Hotch going immediately to her aid. His face was a picture of the same horror Grace was sure was painted across her own.

 _No, they couldn't have been in there. No._

"Reid!" Emily shouted, looking back at the fire. "Morgan? Morgan?"

Numbly, Grace helped a boy who had fallen to his feet.

 _Keep them moving. Don't think. Do the job._

It felt oddly hard to breathe, like there wasn't enough oxygen in the world anymore. Grace's limbs felt heavy and useless.

 _Do the job. Don't think._

Twenty feet from the ruined chapel, silhouetted against the fire, two shadows staggered upright and started limping towards them.

"We're okay!" Morgan choked.

"Oh my God!" Emily exclaimed, covering her mouth in relief. She staggered up the steps, Hotch and Rossi right behind her.

Grace turned away, letting out an undignified giggle of pure relief. Unlike the others, she stayed where she was, keeping the line of traumatised followers moving. It was enough, right now, to know that they were okay.

 _I do better on my own anyway,_ she thought, scrubbing errant tears from her face. While she wanted to run and hug them, the past few days had taught her beyond a shadow of a doubt that she and Reid were much too close, and that wasn't good for a team that regularly put their lives at risk. Not when they needed to focus on saving lives; not when they had a responsibility.

To continue any further down this road now was just silly – and selfish.

No.

This had to end now, and if that meant not hugging Spencer, that's what she was going to do. Besides, she had a strong suspicion that if she put her arms around him now she might never let go, and then where would they be?

Plus, there were frightened people to move. Somewhere behind her, the rest of her team was standing together, watching the flames; Grace felt strangely disconnected from them.

 _Maybe it's better if I pull away a little_ , she thought, her heart still racing.

She felt far too vulnerable right now.

0o0

 _Reason is not automatic. Those who deny it cannot be conquered by it._

 _Ayn Rand_

0o0

Spencer dawdled behind the others as they strolled through the airport. Everyone was hovering around Prentiss, which he was certain was driving her crazy. He couldn't quite bring himself to join them; her injuries, after all, were partly his fault. If he'd only spoken up… but when it came to it, he'd been a coward.

Ashamed, he allowed himself to drop back a little further.

The majority of the team hit the cross-traffic among the airport stores and scattered, determined to make use of the extra time Hotch had insisted they had today. They had earned it, it seemed, by not dying. The trouble was, he didn't really want anything.

Standing for a moment among the swarms of travellers, he looked around. Grace had headed towards a candy and book store off towards the airport's east entrance. With a semi-furtive glance in the direction the others had gone, he hurried after her.

After the explosion he had expected her to seek him out – she always had before, with that preternatural knowledge she seemed to have when he was hurt or needed her. Even when she had been pissed at him she had stayed close, rolling into his orbit like his own personal, beautiful, grumpy guardian angel. But this time, she had been curiously absent, even keeping herself at a distance from the others. The one other exception had been Michael's birthday, and that obviously couldn't have come around so quick.

Therefore, it had to be something to do with the events at the ranch.

Spencer dropped his go bag by the store's exit to wait and watched his friend weighing up a couple of paperbacks and a puzzle book. He'd thought about her a lot inside Liberty Ranch, when he hadn't been trying to think of a way out, worrying about Emily, or simply being terrified. He couldn't help it – Grace just held his attention.

She spotted him when she turned away from the till. Spencer gave an awkward little wave and she swallowed hard; he watched, concerned, as her guard immediately went up. Apparently, today he was someone Grace really hadn't wanted to see. She started towards him, trying to stuff her new puzzle book into her go-bag, frowning.

"Hey," he said tentatively, as she reached him.

"Hey." Grace grimaced, still fighting the zipper on her bag.

"What did you get?" he asked, feeling woefully under-prepared in the small-talk department.

"Puzzles," she said gruffly. "Which you're not getting anywhere near unless you let me tape your mouth shut."

He chuckled, a little more hopefully. They had almost fallen out once because he was a little too good at ordinary crosswords and had a habit of telling her the answers before she could even read them. That particular argument had ended with Rossi taking the newspaper she had been gently beating him over the head with out of her hands and Hotch making them sit at opposite ends of the jet, like schoolchildren. Even though he'd been stuck next to Morgan, who had snored the entire way back to Virginia, it had still been pretty funny.

If she was joking, then she didn't hate him – though he couldn't imagine what he could have done to upset her.

"They're all yours, I swear," he told her, a small smile forming on his lips.

"Better be," she muttered, and then scowled at her bag, which was still stubbornly resisting her advances. "Oh, this bloody thing!" she snapped, taking it off her shoulder and tussling with it with more force than was probably necessary.

"Here," he found himself offering, and took the puzzles out of her unresisting fingers. The zipper worked first time for him, much to her consternation, and he secured it again with a flourish.

He waited a moment for her to thank him, as she usually would, but she didn't. She didn't even look up.

Spencer frowned, bit his lip, looked down. "Okay," he said, picking up his go-bag.

He set off, expecting her to follow, but she didn't. She just kept standing there, glaring at a point in space, roughly where his navel had recently been.

"Grace?" When she didn't respond, he walked back, gently touching her arm. "Hey…"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm coming." Still, she didn't make a move.

There was a closed-in kind of frown on her face and he didn't need to be a profiler to recognise an internal struggle when he saw one. Ordinarily, he would have had to move her along or the rest of the team would be getting antsy on the jet, deal with it later. Today, though, they had time.

It struck him that, for some reason, she was right on the edge of tears. Spencer touched her arm again – he didn't like to see her looking so vulnerable.

Grace looked up at him, finally, and then hugged him so tightly that the bruises Cyrus had given him burned fiercely for a moment. It took him by surprise, knocking his go-bag to the ground. He let it fall and wrapped his arms around her, conscious that for a lot of the past three days, that was really all he'd wanted to do.

"I'm okay," he managed, though his throat and voice felt pretty constricted. He went to pull away, as he thought she would, but she didn't move. Surprised, he held her tighter for a moment. "Grace," he said softly, and she tilted her face towards his. "I'm okay…"

She cleared her throat and nodded, but stayed where she was, which was about the moment Spencer realised she was trying not to cry.

"Hey," he said, tucking a strand of her wild, blonde hair behind her ear. "Really – I," he let out a strained laugh. "I mean, I thought I wasn't gonna be, when that bomb went off, but…"

Wordlessly, she tucked her head beneath his chin; the pressure of her arms was gentler now, but still she didn't pull away. He rested his head against hers, breathing in her strawberry, rose and bergamot smell, and pressed a soft kiss into her hair.

0o0

Grace had claimed the seat beside Rossi on the jet, immediately falling fast asleep, even before they were airborne. The others were similarly lethargic, and Reid wondered how much sleep the guys on the outside had managed to get.

 _Probably about as much as Emily and me._

He wondered, too, why Grace had been so bizarrely conflicted about hugging him. She was always tactile, even if she was angry – almost as much as Garcia at times (though admittedly, between himself and their resident Brit there were fewer boundaries left than there ever would be between himself and his favourite technician), and this sudden change felt jarring and unnatural.

He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, pretending to read, when Emily came out of the tiny bathroom and quietly sat down across from him. Spencer swallowed, giving her a small smile that he hoped would mean she would leave him to his thoughts. The guilt of letting her take that awful beating while he was relatively safe down in the tunnel was still pretty overwhelming, and really, he'd rather not deal with that right now.

Apparently, however, he was out of luck.

"Hey," Emily said, affably enough.

The corners of his mouth turned up a little – an acknowledgement that they were both safe now and that this is good. It was quickly replaced by a frown; he went back to pretending to read, trying to keep things light.

The trouble was (and this was the 'kicker', as Garcia liked to put it) Emily was an extremely good profiler. She knew his first instinct was to dissemble, bury things, and she wasn't going to let him this time.

Gently, Emily took his hands, pushing the book down, getting his attention.

"Hey – hey," she said softly, but firmly. "I need you to listen to me. What Cyrus did to me is _not_ your fault."

Spencer looked away, unable to meet her eyes. Emily was wrong, on so many levels. If only he hadn't been such a coward about it – if only he had said something, he might have spared her the beating – if only –

"It was my decision and I would do it again," she told him firmly. Emily waited until he met her eyes and nodded. "Do you hear me?"

He blinked, pulled his mouth to the side. He did hear her… Maybe it wasn't _all_ his fault.

"Okay," said Emily, accepting this. "Thank you."

Spencer swallowed, lightly rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand like he'd done with Grace. He was glad she was okay and now she knew it.

She smiled and sat back, satisfied, and prepared to doze.

Reid picked up his book again, going back to his covert surveillance of Grace, wondering what was making his friend frown in her sleep.


	10. Where There's Smoke

**Essential listening: She's on Fire, by Train**

 **0o0**

The shed had obviously been Martin Penney's pride and joy. He had been distraught on the phone and even when the fire was out he had had to be led away, sobbing on his wife's shoulder. While Ash could completely understand it – he'd put a lot of work into it over the years, and his tools were badly fire-damaged (some of them beyond saving) – she couldn't help be relieved that no one had been hurt.

This time.

"I don't know what you're so worried about, it's just a shed."

Chief Arson Investigator Ashleigh Carter looked up at the young deputy from Manchester and subjected him to the hundred yard stare that was legendary in the Pine Barrens Combined Fire Department for turning cross-examining barristers to jelly. He swallowed, hard, and decided to wait in the house with the family until the forensic team arrived.

Rolling her eyes at the naivety of some of the younger officers, she returned her attention to the blistered remains of the wood at the back of the shed. This part hadn't burned through, though the char pattern suggested this was exactly where the fire had originated. Tell-tale accelerant scarring ran along the bottom few planks of the wood, and the grass around it was burned off, looking oddly atonal in the beam of her flashlight.

 _Not liquid_ , she thought, _no splashes._ _Gel, like the others?_

She sat back on her haunches, thoughtfully sucking her cheek. The application area was business-like; precise. Whoever it was, was being much more careful this time.

Sighing, Ash got to her feet and dusted off her clothes; she nodded at the three forensic specialists who had just arrived and pointed out the areas she wanted them to pay particular attention to, then slipped around the back of the property and out to her truck.

If this was going the way she thought it was then she was going to need help.

0o0

The bar was loud and cheerful, full of a Thursday night crowd all determined to let their hair down – a far cry from the office, which had been fairly stifling. The team had been stuck in a procedural meeting for most of the afternoon, and the decision to meet at a bar later had been unanimous. Even Hotch and Rossi had showed up, nursing glasses of scotch and chuckling at the younger members of the team with JJ, who obviously wasn't drinking, and Will, who was behaving responsibly in solidarity with his partner.

Reid was sitting close by, watching the others dancing and looking like he'd join in if there were fewer people (or people he knew) in the room. On the dancefloor, Morgan was whirling Garcia around, making them both howl with laughter, while Prentiss and Pearce danced enthusiastically nearby.

Given their usual occupation (and their recent cases) it was good to see them all cut loose for a couple of hours.

"You want another?" Will asked, getting to his feet.

Dave and JJ both nodded, and Hotch got to his feet.

"I'll come with – help you carry them."

JJ watched them go with a contented smile on her face and Dave smirked into his rapidly emptying glass. Since New York, when Will had decided to move to DC to look after JJ and their baby, the two of them had been much, much happier. Their relationship (from the outside, at least) looked much more functional and rewarding than at least two of his marriages, which was a very good sign.

"You didn't feel like dancing?" he teased her, gently.

JJ pulled a face, laughing. "I don't, but this little guy does!" She patted her tummy happily. "I think he likes the music."

"Sounds like you've got a live wire in there," Dave reflected.

"Babies respond to different kinds of music," Reid began, tearing his eyes from the figures on the dancefloor and smiling at his friend. "That's why classical is so good for brain development –"

"I know, Spence," JJ rolled her eyes. "He's getting plenty of Mozart, in between the Beatles and Bob Dylan," she assured him, and the kid subsided, amused.

This was a regular argument, these days, and (as with most things involving pregnancy) everyone had their own opinions. It had been Hotch who'd given JJ a copy of _The White Album_ , while Grace had suggested Dylan – and Elmore James. Pretty much everyone on the team had found an album they loved and added it to the growing pile of things the baby was being subjected to. Dave had gone with the Rat Pack, because there was nothing wrong with starting a kid on culture early.

"I'd quite like him to stop expressing his enthusiasm on my bladder, however," said JJ. "Excuse me."

Reid watched her go, grimacing. "I can't imagine how weird it must feel to have something growing inside you."

"Mmm," Dave agreed, with a chuckle. "I guess we're lucky we'll never find out."

"Tch-yeah."

He turned his head back towards the dancefloor and Rossi chuckled again. He was pretty sure Reid had no idea he was doing it, but the kid genuinely could not prevent his eyes sliding back to where Pearce was dancing. He kept trying, but it seemed to Dave that she was a much more interesting prospect for Reid right now than anything else going on around him.

It was as if, after two years of them practically living in one anothers' pockets (and everyone speculating about their relationship), Reid had finally realised that he was attracted to her – and had no idea whatsoever what to do about it. He had been doing a reasonable job of hiding it at work, but here, his self-consciousness already dissolving in his second glass of brandy, the kid didn't stand a chance.

Particularly while she was dancing.

JJ and Will had certainly noticed his open admiration, and shared a speaking look that suggested they might have some inside information on Reid and Pearce's ongoing flirtation. Hotch, too, had narrowed his eyes and frowned, but declined to comment. It was something he, as their Unit Chief, had to keep an eye on. Technically, agents _were_ allowed to date, but if something like that went wrong it could have serious repercussions for a team, which Dave knew from experience.

He also knew, from experience, that this consideration had never stopped him, and he didn't see why it should stop Reid and Pearce, particularly as they seemed so close, much of the time.

There was a betting pool on whether or not they were already dating – and had been, for nearly a year – and much of the department was rooting for them. Dave had seen it, and seen every other team member's name on it, including Hotch's; even Kevin and Anderson had had a punt.

Fortunately, it looked like Pearce felt more or less the same, which was good, or Reid would have been badly disappointed. Although she had protested when he'd suggested as much in Colorado, she had never at any point actually denied it. Not that the kid knew that, from his behaviour.

He did his best not to laugh when the others came back from the dancefloor and Reid nearly spilled his drink in his haste to make room for Pearce. It reminded Dave of the way he and his classmates had acted when they'd been in the throes of a powerful high school crush.

Grace brushed it off as though she hadn't seen it, saving his blushes as she always seemed to try to do, and dropped into the seat beside him gratefully, shouting something about dancing that Dave couldn't hear over the music. Whatever it was made both Reid and Morgan laugh, and Garcia double up in a fit of giggles.

Dave sat back as Hotch and Will returned from the bar with another round, savouring the carnival atmosphere. He watched, with some amusement, as Pearce leaned in to whisper something in Reid's ear and they both grinned, remaining charmingly close together; natural co-conspirators.

"Will, I can't wait for JJ to be able to dance again!" Prentiss exclaimed, clapping him on the back. "We're gonna have to kidnap her for a girls' night out when the baby's born!"

"I have absolutely no doubt that you will," Will laughed. "All I ask is photographic evidence!"

"Turnin' to blackmail already?" Morgan joked.

"Nah – I jus' reckon I'll need it when I want a guys' night out," he grinned.

"I wish it could be like this all the time," Hotch confided, as their weird little family wound each other up.

Dave nodded, wondering when he'd started feeling like everybody's uncle. He was getting old, he decided.

Pearce got to his feet just as JJ came back, giving her the seat next to Reid and answering her phone, one finger in her ear.

"Ash! Hello my love, how the fuck are you?" She grinned, shouting over the music to be heard. "Give me a minute – I'm in a bar… What do you mean, 'of course I'm in a bloody bar'?"

She gave the rest of the team a wave as she disappeared out of the front door, leaving several vaguely scandalised colleagues behind.

"And you guys won't put _me_ on speaker!" Garcia protested.

Morgan laughed, one arm companionably around both Prentiss's and Garcia's shoulders. "That girl has a mouth on her!"

"She curses like a docker!" Reid exclaimed happily, looking like, for someone who used words so precisely and had probably never cursed in his life, he didn't care at all.

Dave shook his head. Whether he knew it or not, Reid was in deep.

0o0

 _A book can teach you, a conversation can assure you, a poem can seduce you, a genius can inspire you, but you can only save yourself._

 _Anthony Anaxagorou_

0o0

Aaron looked up from the report he was giving a cursory once over to find both JJ and Pearce peering into his office with the look of two women who were up to something.

"Got a sec?" Pearce asked, and he motioned for them both to come in and sit down.

"What do you need?" he asked, while they made themselves comfortable.

The two women exchanged a momentary glance that confirmed the suspicion that he was going to find whatever this was unusual, but that they both thought it was important enough to come to him.

Pearce took the lead. "The call I got at the bar last night was from an old university friend – Ash Carter," she began, "she's head of the Arson Investigation Team at the Pine Barrens Combined Fire Department in New Jersey. Now Ash…" she paused and grinned at something recalled from the distant past. "She's not in any way the kind of person to make something out of nothing. She's sensible and practical, and she doesn't suffer fools lightly – myself included. She has a great deal of experience in arson, and in fire scenes in general. When she comes to me and says she needs my help, I believe her."

Aaron watched her face carefully, wondering who had told this old friend of Pearce's that she was imagining things.

"And she asked for your help?" he prompted.

"Yes," Grace nodded, heavily. "They've had a series of nuisance fires over the past week or so. They're getting closer together and they're getting bigger."

Aaron frowned. Given how much Pearce hated anything to do with fire scenes, it must have taken a lot for her friend to persuade her to propose the case. "Any casualties?"

"No, and no injuries either," she told him. "But the frequency and the scale is worrying. Ash says it feels like their arsonist is building up to something fast, and I have to agree."

"I'm not sure we can justify the expense of –" Aaron began, but Pearce – somewhat uncharacteristically – interrupted.

"I know, and I told her that," she said, "and I told her how extensive our caseload is, but the thing is – she wouldn't have called unless she really needed us."

"Grace ran the files Chief Carter sent her past me first thing," JJ put in. "I think we need to take a look at this. Even if we don't go out and we just consult," she added, on his expression.

He regarded them both for a moment, considering. "Alright," he said at last. "We'll take a look – but I can't promise anything."

"I'll get the guys together," said JJ at once, getting to her feet.

Pearce, however, stayed put.

"Thank you," she said earnestly. "I know there isn't so much to this one yet, but if Ash says this feels like it's about to go off, then I have to go with her gut feeling."

Aaron smiled. "Well, I trust your judgement," he said, "and JJ's, and if two of my agents come to me convinced that a case is something we need to look into then I've gotta listen to them."

0o0

"Okay," said JJ, as the team settled down around the conference room table. "The Pine Barrens, New Jersey. There's been a series of nuisance fires in the area –"

"Nuisance fires?" Emily asked, interrupting. "No casualties?"

"Not yet," said JJ, "but –"

This time, Morgan spoke over her. "So, move on."

"Surely we've got other cases that need our attention?" Reid asked.

"We do, but Chief Carter –"

"So, move on," Morgan repeated.

JJ glared at him.

"Ash Carter's one of my best friends," said Grace, before he could get any further. "She's been a fire investigator for seven years, and chief for three, and she thinks this –" She tapped the file in front of her, "– is about to kick off."

There was a moment of silence while the rest of the team took this in. It was unusual, certainly, to be looking at a case without any deaths, but the more of the file Grace had read, the more she agreed with Ash's assessment. Her arsonist was escalating very quickly; there would be blood before long.

"We're not here to look out for our friends," said Rossi, after a moment.

"No, but we _are_ here as a resource for all kinds of departments," Grace pointed out. "And that network of contacts is what both gets us and solves us cases."

Rossi's mouth slid up to one side; he looked at Hotch, jerking his head in Grace's direction. "We should put her on the brochure."

"Both Pearce and JJ have looked this over," Hotch told the team, with a small smile, "and they think there's something here."

"Well," said Emily, after a moment's consideration, "that's good enough for me."

"What've you got?" Reid asked.

Grace looked at JJ, who motioned for her to go on.

"Two weeks ago, there was a minor bin fire – that's a trashcan, for all you New World heathens," she added, making them chuckle, "at an apartment block in Presidential Lakes, which is right in the heart of the Pine Barrens. It was put out pretty quickly and no one really thought that much about it. Four days later, the same thing happened in Manchester, which is about eight miles away, out of the forest; the day after that, there was one in Pemberton, five miles in the other direction."

"That's when they started taking notice?" Prentiss asked, and Grace nodded.

"That's when Ash started taking notice," she amended. "The residents started paying attention when someone set fire to a bicycle shelter outside the public library in Manchester last Saturday."

"That's a step up," Rossi observed.

Prentiss nodded. "The earlier fires weren't getting enough attention – this one screams 'Look at me!'."

"On Monday, there was another fire, this time it was a shed outside a truck stop, just outside of County Lakes," JJ said, bringing up a map of the Pine Barrens with the fires marked on it. "On Wednesday, a market stall in Pemberton went up in flames. Last night, it was a tool shed – um – kind of a workshop."

"This time," Grace added, "it was in someone's backyard."

"They've shifted from public to personal…" Morgan reflected. "That's an interesting jump."

"Not necessarily," said Grace. "The property's pretty open – there's no fence or anything – and the shed is right up against the tree-line."

Hotch sat up, interested. "They were threatening the woods?"

"That's what Ash's afraid of," Grace confirmed. "The Pine Barrens had some awful fires a few years back, apparently, nearly destroyed the whole district."

"I remember that," said Hotch thoughtfully. "'95 – there was a state emergency."

"It burned for weeks," said JJ. "I watched it on the news with Mom."

"No wonder people are scared," Reid reflected.

"Yeah – and our unsub is getting off on that," Morgan frowned.

The corner of Grace's lips quirked slightly: 'our unsub'. They were already halfway on board.

"It says here they're using flammable gel," Emily observed, reading one of the forensic reports.

"Yeah – Ash said they're still working on the analysis, but it looks consistent so far," Grace confirmed.

"Increasingly precise burn pattern around the area of application, too," Reid added.

"They're getting' more confident," Morgan guessed.

"And more skilled."

"The communities around the Pine Barrens are starting to freak out a little more with each fire – and they're pretty close to Fort Dix and the McGuire Air Force Base," said Grace. "There's no pressure from the military yet, but –"

"But with each fire, that becomes more likely," Rossi finished.

"Yes –" Grace's hand flew to her phone, which was buzzing like a thing possessed. Looking down at the text, her frown became a grimace. "It's Ash. There's another one – and this time three people have been hospitalised."

Hotch nodded and got to his feet. "Alright. Tell your friend we'll be there in two hours – wheels' up in twenty."

0o0

"The geography's weird," said Reid, as they pored over the few reports they had in the jet.

Grace leaned over the back of his seat. "Weird how?"

He glanced up at her and pointed. "The fires are so far apart – they're in two different counties, in four different towns."

Prentiss nodded. "So we're looking at someone with transport."

"All at different times of day, too," Rossi added. "So they're unlikely to be in work."

"Or they work nights," Prentiss mused. "There's only been one incident in the evening or night so far – the shed fire."

Rossi nodded, converted.

"Arsonists tend to be people who feel a deep lack of power in their own personal circumstances, so if they are in work they've got to be fairly low down the food chain," Morgan observed.

"And they hate it," Grace concurred.

"They're usually male and generally loners," Hotch put in, "given their lack of patience or social skills, which further isolates them, making them feel even more powerless."

"Or they're just totally addicted to the fire," Prentiss argued. "Like getting a fix – that fits the pattern of these fires: each one is bigger and more prominent than the last."

"Have there been any recent conflagrations?" Hotch asked. "Something traumatic that might have triggered our unsub?"

"No," said Grace, who had asked Garcia to look before they left Quantico. "There were a couple of house fires last year, but no one was hurt – and it's not an anniversary of those or the fires in 1995."

"Hey guys? It looks like the first fires were more opportunist," said Reid thoughtfully, reading the forensic file. "No accelerant used, small fires, contained. They could even have been accidental."

"There's your trigger," Morgan remarked. "They saw it and then –"

"They couldn't get enough," Prentiss finished, looking concerned.

"What's the weather like in the Pine Barrens?" Hotch asked, slowly.

Rossi got out his phone to check while the rest of his colleagues frowned at one another, reflecting that this unsub wasn't going to stop until they were caught.

"Sunshine, clear skies and a strong crosswind," Rossi reported glumly.

There was a momentary pause as seven federal agents digested the very real possibility of expiring in a fiery death. Grace, who had been wrestling with this imagery since Ash's call, shuddered.

"Morgan, Rossi, you head to Manchester, check out the scenes there," said Hotch briskly, chasing away such dark thoughts. "JJ, you go with them, see what the mood of the town is. The rest of us will meet with Chief Carter at the most recent scene in Pemberton."

"What's Carter like?" Emily asked, as they settled in their seats, ready for landing.

Despite the tenor of the conversation, Grace grinned; she couldn't help it.

"Capable, sensible, sarcastic, stubborn, brilliant and kind," she told them. "Basically, imagine me, but with far more patience and from Kentucky."

0o0

Derek picked his way through the torched remains of an apparently much loved public bus shelter. The officer Pearce's old friend had despatched to meet them was hovering nearby, attentive, but not in the way. Obviously, this Chief Carter knew how to train her officers.

Derek approved.

Unlike the shed fire in Pemberton, there wasn't a great deal of the structure left. There, the owner had had noticed in time to turn the hose on it; here, by the sounds of the reports, no one had quite known what to do. The waterproofing treatment on the wood had gone up very quickly; it seemed particularly ironic, in a town that was so paranoid about fire, that it wasn't also flameproof.

He nodded at Rossi, who had been chatting with the librarian. She had come out to see what was going on as soon as she'd noticed unfamiliar faces on her patch. It was understandable, after the recent spate of arson.

"The shelter was put in in '96," Rossi told him, "when the whole town came together to rebuild after the big fire. Everyone got involved."

"So he's attackin' the community as a whole," Derek realised, raising an eyebrow. "Strikin' out against the rebuildin'."

"They're angrier than we thought – and not just with their personal situation, with the community as a whole," the older agent observed, looking around.

Derek followed his gaze. There were people watching them, dotted around the doorways of the shops and the diner where JJ had gone to look tired and pregnant in order to eavesdrop. They weren't panicked yet, just watchful; on the edge of on the edge.

"Pearce's friend is right," he remarked. "Maybe we got here just in time."


	11. There's Fire

**Essential listening: Firestarter, by The Prodigy**

 **0o0**

Spencer watched the trees flash past the windows of the car, one eye on Grace's reflection. Her gaze was fixed on the woods, too, though he wasn't sure she was really seeing them; there was a tight, faraway look on her face, which she was resting in the cup of her hand, her other arm leaning against the window.

She was wearing it well, but this case was clearly one of mixed emotions for her; he suspected that seeing her old friend was the only thing keeping her horror of fire at bay.

Although Grace was hardly ever anything but professional while on the job, her history meant that anything involving arson made her tense and uncommunicative. It was her way of dealing with it, getting through the worst of it until there was time to sit down and put it out of her mind again.

Sometimes, he wondered whether she'd ever properly dealt with the trauma of losing her father at all. Healing took time, and it hadn't been that long since he'd died, in the grand scheme of things.

He glanced at the other occupants of the car: Emily was absorbed in the forensic reports and Hotch was busy driving, his eyes on the road. Careful not to draw their gaze, Spencer dropped his hand over Grace's; she didn't look in his direction, but a smile crept onto her face, some of the tension in her frame relaxing.

Feeling her hand turn over beneath his, he returned his gaze to the woods on his side of the car, allowing their fingers to twine together. Like him, Grace dealt with her demons quietly and alone, and although he was reasonably sure that if she needed him she would never seek him out (she could be quite stubborn about that), Spencer felt that she knew _he_ would go looking for _her_. If he could lessen that pain, even for a moment, then he would.

It was a strange feeling, knowingly being someone else's safety net.

It was different than caring for his mother. For a long time, that relationship had been unequal, first when he had been very young and had needed her constant care, and then when he had been older and she had needed his. Whatever he had with Grace felt equal: they both had trauma and heartache to deal with, and they both had talents that set them apart from most of their friends.

When he needed her, she would seek him out, too.

Maybe that was what being in love really meant: finding someone as broken as you were and being just as happy to follow them into the storm as you would be to follow them out again.

They pulled up behind a line of crime scene tape. _Mack's_ was a detached building in the middle of a row of shops; well, it had been. It was a mercy, really, that they were all pretty far apart.

Prentiss let out a low whistle when she stepped out of the SUV.

What had been a local hotspot was now a burnt carcass of a building. The fire had gutted the entire bar, right up to the rafters – some of which were still smouldering. Everywhere around them the scent of charred wood and hot metal swirled, souring the air. Spencer felt, rather than saw, the tension in his best friend, as she made her way around the car, implacable as ever. His hand felt strangely cold, without hers in it.

A small crowd of worried, midday townspeople had gathered along the edge of the tape, watching the forensic arson team at work. It looked like the fire wasn't long out.

"Must have gone up fast," said Grace softly, at his elbow.

She was very close, as if she suddenly needed his proximity. He looked at her underneath his eyelashes, trying not to call attention to her discomfort. Together, the four of them ducked under the tape, flashing their badges at the local law enforcement officers who moved to intercept them and then rebounded, as if the agents had their own, personal magnetic bubbles. One of the deputies nodded to Hotch.

"Chief Carter's round the back," he said. "Mind where you step – they had to pull what was left of the windows out."

Hotch led the way, picking his way around the remains of broken masonry; Prentiss and Reid followed him, Grace trailing behind somewhat, moving carefully, keeping herself contained.

"Looks like a bomb hit it," Spencer remarked, as they rounded the corner.

"It pretty much did, honey."

He looked up from the path he was carefully treading past the tide line of debris to find a tall, sharp-eyed woman watching him with the faintest trace of amusement around her mouth. She was dressed head-to-toe in departmental navy blue overalls, a flashlight and a small fire axe at her belt. Her shoulder-length brown hair was gathered in a business-like ponytail, which didn't disguise that the underside of it had been shot through with bright pink.

It brought a slightly confused smiled to his face. Clearly, Chief Carter was someone who went her own way, much as Grace did.

"Aaron Hotchner," said Hotch, extending a hand.

The chief pulled off a glove and shook it. "Ashleigh Carter." She smiled. "Y'all must be BAU."

"This is SSA Emily Prentiss and Doctor Spencer Reid," Hotch continued, while Carter shook hands with Emily and returned Spencer's awkward little wave. "And –"

"Oh, honey, this crazy lady needs no introduction," the chief interrupted.

Grace squeezed past and was quickly engulfed in a tight hug, which she happily returned.

"It's good to see you, Miss Ashleigh," said Grace, in a strangely childlike voice that made the other three agents raise their eyebrows.

Carter barked a laugh, "Don't you start, Kid Vicious, or I'll lock you in a closet again."

"Like it could hold me," Grace scoffed.

They grinned at one another for a moment, then shifted immediately into work mode, as if one of them had simply flicked a switch.

"What've you got?"

"A hot mess," said the chief, motioning for them to follow her inside. On the threshold, between the blackened door jambs, she paused and stopped Grace. "You alright with this?"

Grace nodded, though she was obviously gritting her teeth, and Carter led them inside.

It looked worse inside than it had outside: just a charred skeleton with flashes of colour here and there, where the fire hadn't had time to destroy. Parts of it were still steaming, dripping with the water they'd used to put it out with.

"We had to pull down most of the roof," Carter explained. "What's left is safe – though you're gonna get dripped on, I'm afraid."

"Ew," said Emily, rubbing the back of her neck. "Right into my collar!"

"The ignition source was behind the bar," said Carter, pointing at the far wall. "It was inside a brown paper bag – like a grocery bag. One of the bartenders found it by the pool tables and thought it was lost property. They put it behind the bar – right underneath the liquor." She grimaced as they took in the mangled remains of the shelving. "That's what did the damage – when the liquor went up it caught three patrons and a bartender. Couple of 'em got pretty bad burns." Unexpectedly, she winked at Grace. "Bartender was smokin' before the fire though, if you know what I'm sayin'."

Grace snorted, then attempted to look like she hadn't, which was extremely cute (as far as Spencer was concerned).

Hotch looked between the two women, faintly amused. "Focus."

"Was it gel, like before?" Emily (who was also smirking) asked.

"Looks like – only this time it was more sophisticated," she told them. "Had a timer on it – one of the patrons heard it go off. Standard kitchen timer, before you ask, and there's not much of it left. Impossible to trace."

Spencer frowned. "What was the dispersal method?"

"Now, that I don't know," said Carter. "There are a few traces of somethin' on the floor, where the fire didn't get to, but most of it is mixed up with accelerant, liquor and water. We'll have to wait until it gets back from the lab." She scratched the back of her neck. "Probably somethin' homemade though, if the timer's anythin' to go by."

"What would have happened if it had been undisturbed – the ignition source, I mean," Grace asked, her teeth still clamped shut.

"By the pool tables?" her old friend clarified. "Well, the tables woulda been beyond savin', but it wouldn'ta been nearly such a fireworks show."

"They didn't intend to make this much of a mess," Hotch guessed.

Emily nodded. "It was intended to be an escalation, but not on this scale."

"What does that mean?" Carter asked, watching the team members exchanging glances.

"Well, either they'll be appalled and try to stop," Grace began.

"But that's unlikely to stick for long – for this kind of unsub, fire is an addiction," Spencer put in.

"Or they'll be inspired and up their game," Grace finished glumly. "The bigger the better."

"We need to start getting a provisional profile out there," Hotch reflected. "Chief, can you get your people together?"

"Sure – you'll need to give the Sheriff's offices a couple hours though," she advised. "The fires fall across two counties, so that's a lot of personnel to corral."

"But your fire service covers all of it?" Prentiss asked.

"Yes ma'am. We cover the better part of the Pine Barrens area. After the fires in '95 the existing county services were amalgamated," she told them. "And we liaise with the team at Ford McGuire and the airbase."

"It makes sense," Spencer reflected. "It's a big area, but it's all the same terrain."

Carter nodded. "And fire spreads fast in the Barrens." For a moment, her expression changed.

Grace clearly recognised the look, and didn't even bother turning around. "That's Derek Morgan," she said, before her friend could ask.

"Well, _hello_ ," said Carter, as Morgan and Rossi ducked into the wreck of the building. "Ash Carter, Chief Arson Investigator."

She held out a hand and Morgan shook it. "SSA Derek Morgan, at your service."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Spencer rolled his eyes. It didn't matter where they were or who they were with, Morgan would find an admirer.

"Put him down," Grace admonished – though she sounded amused.

"Quiet you."

"David Rossi," said Rossi, entertained. Carter shook his hand too, though her eyes lingered on Morgan. "And that's Jennifer Jareau," he added, jerking a thumb behind him.

Spencer glanced outside, where JJ had wisely remained.

"What've you got?" Hotch asked.

"The public bus shelter was a community project," said Rossi, since Morgan was still gazing appreciatively at Carter. "It was part of the rebuilding programme."

"So he's hitting out at the community – and the rebuilding."

0o0

"Alright folks, if we could have your attention please?"

The room shuffled to order as Ash surveyed her troops. Grace hid a smile. This was exactly where Ash should be, marshalling people, meting out justice, seeing that stuff got done. It was good to see her old friend so trusted and so settled; but then, Ash had always seemed much more mistress of herself than Grace had ever felt.

"These nice folks from the FBI want to tell you about the guy settin' these fires." She ran her eyes over the assembled police officers, deputy sheriffs and arson investigators. "So ya'll listen up."

"We'd ask you to keep in mind that this is a preliminary profile," Hotch announced, "but given the nature and frequency of these incidents, we felt you should hear it as soon as possible."

"We think what we're dealin' with here is an excitation arsonist," said Rossi, kicking things off. "This kind of unsub gets off on fire – it's a fix for him, like a drug."

"And like a drug, the more fires this guy sets, the more he's going to crave it," Prentiss continued. "That's why you're seeing a move towards bigger fires."

"The disorganised nature of the first few fires tells us they were accidental or opportunistic, pointing towards a less emotionally developed and likely less well-educated unsub," said Morgan. "In this case, we think you're looking for a young male, between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five, who has some issues with social development. There may be abuse or neglect in his past, with problems at school, at home, or both."

"Our unsub is most likely single, unemployed and living with a parent or a guardian," Spencer put in. "Their parents are probably middle class, with white-collar jobs. There may be a history of fire setting that the parents have tried to conceal, so check your records for anyone associated with small fires over the last ten years."

"We also know that they have transportation of some kind, based on the locations of the fires," said Prentiss. "It's got to be fairly inconspicuous, since no one at any of the scenes noticed anything unusual. This also tells us that the unsub is a familiar face in all of the affected communities."

"Because this offender is becoming more sophisticated in their use of accelerant, timers and so on, we know that they have a high or above average IQ," Grace added. "They want bigger fires and they're smart enough to know how to make them."

"The use of a timer also tells us that the fire itself isn't entirely what excites them," Hotch explained.

"They're getting' off on the fear?" Ash clarified.

"Oh, absolutely." Grace nodded. "This means they likely feel ignored in their daily lives – they believe they have tremendous potential, whether or not this is true, and they're sick of the world taking their mediocrity for granted. They're seeking recognition."

"Given that they're feeding off the fear in your communities, we've asked the media not to make too much of the fires," JJ told them.

"So they're just going to ignore them?" a young deputy asked. "That doesn't sound like the media."

Several people chuckled, JJ included.

"As much as we want to downplay the fires, we don't want them to disappear altogether," she elucidated. "If what this unsub wants is recognition and we take that away from them, then that might force them to up their game."

"It'll buy us some time," said Hotch, as some of the assembled law enforcement exchanged dubious glances. "Which we badly need. Ordinarily in a serial arson investigation we would expect a long cooling off period between fires – in this case, we only have days between each fire, or less."

"The faster the fires come, the worse this is going to get," said Prentiss gravely. "If this unsub devolves into a spree arsonist, we're going to have one hell of a fire risk on our hands."

"This type of offender rarely intends the fire to harm people, as we saw in the bar fire," said Reid.

"But people were hospitalised in that fire," another deputy – this time from the Pemberton Sheriff's Office – pointed out.

"Yes, but the device from that scene was moved from its original position to a place where it caused maximum damage," Reid explained patiently. "If it had gone off while it was still in the pool table area, it's likely no one would have been hurt – and the fire would have been much smaller."

"It's possible, if their intent wasn't to harm, that the fact they have hurt people will make them stop or slow down," Rossi told them. "On the other hand, it might shift their focus towards casualties."

"This kind of serial arsonist will not stop unless we catch them," Hotch advised them.

"Well," said Ash, standing up. "You heard 'em. Get out, get canvassing. And keep an eye on anyone on the other side of the tape – if the fear is what's drawin' them in, they might revisit."

She clapped her hands and, as if she had somehow released them all from an enchantment, everybody moved off.

Hotch watched them go, contemplatively. "This is a big area to cover," he remarked.

"The profile should help narrow it down a little," said Emily. "And looking at the map, south of Fort McGuire the towns have a pretty low population."

"We'll need to keep our eyes peeled," agreed Ash. She met Grace's gaze for a moment, before continuing, "There's a lot of places to hide in the Barrens."

 _So,_ thought Grace, _I'm not just here to profile._

There had been nothing to suggest a supernatural element in the files or reports, but Ash wasn't prone to flights of fancy.

"You wanted to look at small fires over the last ten years?" Ash asked, as the team turned their attention back to the distribution of fire scenes Reid had been working on. "Most-a that stuff is online, but there'll be a lot of it." She chuckled. "When you live in the woods you really pay attention to that stuff."

Grace grinned. "I think maybe it's time I introduced you to our resident superhero."

0o0

The team had been elbow deep in ancient fire reports, guided by the able keystrokes of their pre-eminent technician, when a grim-looking deputy fire marshal had appeared, with the address of a care home in County Lake.

This time, they hadn't been so lucky.

Compared to the bar, the building at Tall Pines Home for the Elderly was relatively unscathed; the conflagration had been small and was put out even before the fire department had arrived. The same, sadly, could not be said for the residents.

"Maisie Reece, ninety-four," Prentiss read, from the notes the paramedics had dictated to her, "and Beaumount Rogers, seventy-three."

"Smoke inhalation?" Aaron asked, running a practiced eye over the crowd milling around on the far side of the tape.

Their unsub could be one of them, eagerly watching his own story unfold. He glanced at JJ, who was surreptitiously taking photos of everyone with her phone.

 _Well, if they were here, we'll have them on record._

"It was for Rogers – he had late-stage emphysema, on top of chronic asthma," Prentiss told him. "The smoke was the last straw."

"And Reese?" Aaron asked.

"Heart attack," she said sadly. "The manager said it was her third. It was her birthday next week – her family were flying in from New York."

Aaron sighed. All victims were hard to accept, but this old lady had survived so much already. Chief Carter joined them, shaking her head.

"Our victims were right next to the ignition source," she said. Her expression became more of a scowl. "You know, I'm trained to deal with the worst a fire can do to someone. I've seen the bodies of kids who don't even look human anymore, people fused to their beds – hell, I've even seen a case I had to write off as spontaneous human combustion, like they burned from the inside out." She chewed the inside of her mouth, her eyes resting on the black bagged, stretchered bodies, just inside the building, where they were waiting to be moved to an ambulance. "Since I got to the Barrens, we've had four deaths by fire, and two of them were drunk enough to set themselves alight. I'm outta practice, I guess."

"You never get used to it," Aaron said, following the direction of her thoughts.

Absently, he wondered if the spontaneous human combustion incident was how she knew Pearce.

 _Probably._

Carter nodded soberly. "I mean, y'all must catch worse ones than me, but these two…" She shook her head again. "There's barely a mark on either of them. They were just mindin' their own business."

Aaron nodded, silently reflecting that most of the victims the BAU dealt with were just minding their own business, unlike Carter's usual fare.

"I never could figure where Grace hid all that darkness," she said softly, almost to herself.

"You put it away until you need it," Prentiss told her. "Then you throw it all into catching your unsub."

Carter nodded. "Speakin' of, it looks like they musta had prior knowledge of this place. The device went off at 3.10 p.m., ten minutes into the daily meeting."

"Daily meeting?" Prentiss queried.

"Yeah, they get together once a day to chat and have a coffee or whatever, and discuss anythin' they think needs attention." She held up a timetable. "Three 'til four every day. Everybody attends, while the cleanin' staff do a once over of people's rooms."

"So we need to be looking at the staff – who else has knowledge of the timetable or access to the room?" Hotch asked.

"Everybody and their mom," Carter huffed. "Family, friends, visitors, staff – they have guest speakers a couple of times a week from all over."

"Wow," said Prentiss, impressed. "Look at this timetable – they have lectures, sports, parties, dances, plays, art clubs, photography classes..."

"I know, right?" Carter chuckled. "Sign me up when I'm done! The Pine Barrens takes care of its own."

"That's a lot of people to check," mused Aaron, reading over Prentiss' shoulder.

"They got a handful of volunteers, too," Carter added. "They come in from all over."

Prentiss tutted. Their field of potential arsonists was widening alarmingly.

"It's a start," said Aaron. "We'll get Garcia on it."

"Plus side," Carter told him, "all the volunteers have to have a criminal record check from the local police department, and anyone coming in from outside signs a book with their name and contact details."

"Good."

"There's somethin' else, too. This time the fire was put out pretty quickly – one of the kitchen staff recognised that it was a gel and stopped them usin' the normal extinguisher. Threw a whole pound of baking powder on it. Smart kid. Got a future. Anyhow, the timer survived – and a few scraps of what looks like neoprene or latex. We'll have to run it through the lab to be sure, but I got a hunch about our delivery system."


	12. Backyard Napalm

**Essential listening: My Perfect Day, by Feeder**

 **0o0**

"Water balloons? Seriously?"

"Looks like," said Pearce, studying the preliminary lab report. "Ash was right on the button."

"Of course I was, Kid Vicious," Chief Carter said, with a kind of grim smirk on her face. "Remember those kids at college who used to balance them on the top of dorm doors?"

"And throw them out of windows at people," Pearce agreed, shaking her heads. "Little scrotes."

"And remember Hope tellin' us about how they used to shove fireworks in people's pockets around fireworks night?"

"Woah!" Morgan and Emily exclaimed as Grace simply nodded.

"Where the hell did you guys go to college?" Emily asked, but both women ignored her.

"Soon as I saw those little scraps of balloon, it got me thinkin' 'bout those kids…"

"It's kind of ingenious," Reid reflected, frowning slightly. "The water balloons are filled with flammable gel and left on a ledge, like on the stool next to the pool table at _Mack's_ , or on the shelf under the coffee table at _Tall Pines._ The unsub picked a type of timer that vibrates when it goes off – and which is muted, so no one's attention is drawn to it – and that knocks the water balloon to the floor, where it bursts, splashing gel everywhere."

"I still don't understand how they got it to ignite," Rossi complained. "Was there a spark or something from the timer?"

"The lab's looking into it," Hotch told him. "But it's unlikely."

"We just got the results on the gel," JJ announced, coming over with a printout. She read out the contents, frowning. "Isopropanol, calcium acetate, trace amounts of water and carbon dioxide."

Carter looked through the list over her shoulder. "That rules out a lot of the commercial kinds – most of them have additives for longer and safer burns…"

"I know what it is!" Reid said, suddenly. "Physics magic!"

"Huh?" Carter asked.

"What, you mean like that desk rocket you made?" Emily asked, remembering the glee on his face when the thing had successfully gone off – and the dismay when it had landed at Hotch's feet.

She smiled slightly. That had been the first time she had seen Hotch's sense of humour, not long after joining the team. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

Grace nudged her in the arm. "Desk rocket?"

"I'll tell you later."

"You wanna expand on that?" Rossi added, as the younger man scrabbled for a whiteboard marker.

"Physics magic!" Reid exclaimed again, furiously scribbling an equation on the board. "You mix calcium carbonate with acetic acid," he told them, pointing at the requisite formulae, "and you get calcium acetate, which is a gel. Add a little alcohol, and you've got a flammable gel.*"

"So it's homemade," said Hotch, after a short pause.

"So, someone's gotta be buyin' materials," Morgan suggested. "We can have Garcia trace them."

"Uh – it might not be that easy," said Reid, wincing. "You can get calcium carbonate from antacid tablets –"

"Acetic acid, isn't that vinegar?" Emily added.

"And then all you need is rubbing alcohol," Reid finished, nodding. "Homemade backyard napalm, made out of the kind of stuff we can't trace and most people wouldn't look twice at."

"Backyard napalm, huh?" Chief Carter repeated, giving Reid a hard stare. She looked at Pearce, jerking a thumb in Reid's direction. "Should I be worried about him?"

Reid blushed faintly and started fiddling with the pen he still had in his hand, mildly abashed.

Pearce snorted. "No more than about me."

"That is _not_ encouraging," Carter told her flatly, and Prentiss wished she knew just what was making both women smirk.

"Nah, he's far more sensible. What's rubbing alcohol?"

"Denatured alcohol, used to sanitise skin and instruments before surgery," Reid answered, sounding like an encyclopaedia.

"Oh right, surgical spirit, got you," said Pearce. "Surely that's a bit more niche than the others?"

"That's true," said Rossi. "You can get it in small amounts for first aid kits, but if you wanted a lot – enough to make the fires we're seeing you'd have to get it off the internet, or in a pharmacy."

"And that would show up," Hotch nodded, already dialling.

" _Speak and be heard, my lovelies!"_

Emily smiled. Garcia never failed to brighten up a room, even several hundred miles away.

"Garcia, we need you to look for big or repeated purchases of rubbing alcohol in the area, along with antacids and vinegar."

" _Uh – okay… that's – why?"_

"Who would know this kind of stuff?" Prentiss asked, as Morgan explained Reid's backyard napalm theory.

"Uh – it's pretty basic chemistry," Reid said. "Anyone with a scientific background could probably figure it out."

"Or a background in misbehaving," Pearce put in. "I bet it's all over the internet."

"Garcia," said Hotch. "Can you see how easy it is to find out how to make flammable gel?"

" _Of course, my liege! And it is…"_

They waited for a few moments as their tech's keyboard rattled.

" _Disturbingly easy. Like, the first result had a recipe and where to get ingredients. Wow, teenage vandals never had it this easy! One of the downsides of the internet."_

"So it won't help us narrow down our list at all," Chief Carter sighed.

"Maybe more than you think," Morgan told her. "It tells us that he's creative, independent and prepared to put in some study hours. Now, you'd be surprised at how many that'll knock off our list."

" _You guys, the comments on some of these recipes,"_ Garcia interrupted. _"They've got suggestions for other kinds of homemade fuel…"_

0o0

"This one's really getting to you, isn't it?" Grace asked.

Ash turned and looked at her. If Grace hadn't known her better she would have said that her friend wasn't sleeping. She had been watching her for several minutes, leaning against the frame of the door while the rest of her team argued over where to order takeout from.

"Yeah," the other woman said, after a moment. She sat down at her desk and motioned Grace to come in and do the same. "Those fires in '95 hang heavy over these woods," she told her darkly. "They're always in the back of people's minds. Particularly the older firefighters, who watched it happen. It's like everyone's just waitin' for them to come again. They don't say it, but I can see it in their faces right now – after those first couple of small fires…"

"You'll stop them," Grace said, frowning at the tiredness on her old friend's face.

"Yeah, but before or after they kill someone else?"

Grace sighed. "One of the worst things about this job is knowing that there will always be another death – and that sometimes more people have to die before you can stop your unsub. Some cases…" She shook her head. "Some cases, you need another corpse because that's the one they slip up on, or the one that completes the pattern. They're the worst."

Ash nodded, slowly. "But this one doesn't set out to kill people," she remarked, looking thoughtful.

"No, by the look of it, casualties and deaths are secondary," Grace agreed. She watched her friend's face for a moment. "What're you thinking?"

"Maisie Reece and Beaumont Rogers, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Ash said. "Same with the regulars at _Mack's_. Now, I'm not the profiler here, so stop me if I'm way off, but settin' fires in public places that aren't supposed to hurt anybody – that sounds like attention seekin' to me."

Grace nodded. "So you think it's less about the fire?"

"More about bein' noticed," Ash agreed. "Like sprayin' graffiti over a giant billboard. Fire's just what they're usin' to get their point across."

"Hell of a medium," Grace remarked, chewing the end of her fingertip.

It was her turn to be scrutinised; she felt Ash's steady gaze on her face and looked up, smiling wryly.

"What?"

"I really appreciate you bringin' these guys out," said Ash. "Can't be easy for you."

Grace sniffed, giving a minute shake of her head. "I'll manage."

"I know you will, honey, but that doesn't mean it doesn't take it out of you." She chuckled. "You've got to learn to give yourself a break."

"What, like you?" Grace shot back, though both women were smiling, amused at themselves. "Honestly now, since this thing started, when was the last full night of sleep you had?"

"Full nights are at a premium right now," Ash laughed. "I got enough to think clearly and function, and that's fine by me until this is done. And don't think I don't know you're exactly the same – or that I didn't see your clever little manoeuvre there, getting me away from talkin' about you."

Grace sat back and regarded her old friend for a moment.

"I've missed your face."

Ash laughed. "I've missed your face too."

"Why am I here, Ashleigh? I know you need the profilers, and it's nice to be remembered and all, but that's not the only reason, is it?" she added, when Ash looked like she was about to speak. "You told me to keep my eyes peeled: what for, exactly?"

The other woman pursed her lips for a moment. "It might have no bearing on the case at all, you understand," she said, cagily. "So I don't want to bias your profile, but…"

"But a nefarious magic maker might be involved?"

"Well, _you're_ here, so that goes without saying," Ash retorted, making Grace snort. "No, I've got a hunch, and I've seen what you can do, but I don't think they're involved with this. I'm absolutely certain, however, that when people start pointin' fingers, I know what directions they'll be pointin' in. An outside and – more unusual perspective will come in handy."

 _So,_ Grace thought. _There's more than one potential practitioner about._

"Noted," she said aloud. "And the people with the overactive digits?"

"Local whackjobs," Ash told her, with a disgusted sigh. "The usual, you know? Holier-than-thou attitude, they know how to run law enforcement and every emergency service better than anyone – and they let you know it. They ran a man outta the area a year ago because they decided he was a kiddie-fiddler. Poor guy didn't know what hit him – he had dementia, they thought he was bein' evasive." Ash tapped her fingers on the table, angrily. "Time I heard about it, it was all over, or I woulda given them a piece of my mind. They weren't violent. They were clever. They followed him everywhere and convinced all the local places not to serve him. Assholes."

"I'm pretty sure that's a violation of his rights," said Grace, appalled.

"Oh yeah – but when the cops finally got wind of it and stepped in, they all pretended they didn't know and were very sorry and all that bullshit, but by then the damage was done. Kids started eggin' his house and breakin' his windows. Some of their parents, too, who should know better."

"He moved away?"

Ash nodded. "Went to live with his sister in Florida. I found out a few weeks back that one of the head whackjobs, busybody named Barbara Millette, wrote to the school authority in his new town to warn them that he was a 'dangerous paedophile'. Luckily, the school board had the sense to ask the police to check it out before they did anything. I'm pretty sure the cops down in Florida are helpin' the man's sister to sue her for harassment of a vulnerable adult."

Grace thought about this. "I imagine that's made Ms Millette's day."

"Oh yeah, big time. She and her friends are spoilin' for trouble, and –"

"And the fires will give them an excuse. Oh, goody." Grace exclaimed. "Anyone else I need to look out for?"

"Frank Dunphy," Ash said at once. "Barbara Millette is his right-hand woman. You never see one without the other – though he's not stupid enough to get himself noticed the way she is. Together with Randy Ewing, they run pretty much every social committee they can get their claws into. There's a whole network of neighbourhood watches, fire prevention schemes and 'moral education' programmes across the Barrens, and they're chair, secretary and treasurer of every damn one."

"I'm guessing you come into contact with them fairly regularly," Grace suggested, noticing the grim expression on her friend's face.

"About once a week," Ash complained darkly. "One of these days, I'm gonna tell 'em exactly what I think of 'em, and then I'll be lookin' for work."

They were both grimly smiling at this prognosis when Deputy Harman, who had been on the front desk, came in, a very pinched expression on his face.

"Oh God, what now?" Ash asked, already rising from her seat, half-convinced there was another fire.

Deputy Harman heaved a great sigh. "There's a Mr Dunphy, a Ms Millette and a Mr Ewing to see you, boss," he said tightly. "I told them you were out, and they set up in the corner to wait, with sandwiches and notebooks. They're recording everyone's activities."

" _Really?_ " Ash asked the heavens. "Right now?" She expelled all the air from her cheeks. "Alright Jack, I'll tell 'em I came in through the back."

"As if they were summoned by their names alone, like medieval demons," Grace mused, taking in the expressions on both their faces. "Well, let's give them what they want – one on one consultations with the FBI. It'll give you guys a break, at any rate. I'll get Hotch."

0o0

Randy Ewing was a small, contained, mole-like creature, a description that Spencer was mildly ashamed of as soon as it entered his head – but he couldn't help it. He had the look of Penfold from _Danger Mouse_ , or the old guy with the spectacles from _The Simpsons_.

He sat across from Spencer and Emily, cleaning his thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and affecting (it was definitely an affectation, and it didn't take a profiler to see it) an air of pained tolerance, as if he had a lot of other things he would much rather be doing, and the two FBI agents were lucky that he had deigned to allow them to waste his time.

Although he was trying very hard to keep an open mind, there was nothing in Ewing's manner to suggest he was anything other than a time waster, wanting his voice to be Heard at all costs, no matter how much of an active investigation he took up. Without needing to exchange glances, both of them plastered tight professional smiles on their faces, like the ones you saw on the training videos, entirely devoid of emotion or information.

Sometimes, the trick was to make them feel like they were winning.

Emily cleared her throat. "Hello Mr Ewing, my name is Supervisory Special Agent Prentiss –"

"Supervisory, eh? That's good, that's good," the man muttered, almost to himself.

"And this is _Doctor_ Spencer Reid," she continued, clearly of the opinion that this was a man who would be as taken with his academic achievements as their rank.

 _Plus,_ Spencer thought, _'Supervisory Special Agent' sounds much better until you figure out that almost the whole team holds that position. He'd probably think it's a fabricated title…_

"Doctor?" Ewing repeated, fixing his eyes on Spencer. "Doctor of what – if you don't mind me asking?"

Spencer did a little, because it was evidently a matter of status for the man (which had never been the case for him or his teammates), but he smiled and said, "Uh – actually I hold three PhDs, in Mathematics, Chemistry and Engineering, and four Bachelor's degrees in Mathematics, Psychology, Sociology and Criminology."

" _Three_ PhDs?" he exclaimed, quite taken aback. "How old are you for God's sake?"

Ewing was openly staring now, but it was nothing Spencer wasn't used to. "I'm twenty-six, sir."

"Well, I can see why the FBI would make use of you!"

Spencer managed to smile, despite how little he liked the phrase 'make use of' when applied to a person.

"Sir, you said you had a complaint?" Emily reminded him, trying to move him back on track.

"Oh, yes, yes I do, young lady."

Inwardly, Spencer winced.

 _Oh man,_ he thought. _You're doing this all wrong…_

Somehow managing not to snap at him, Emily motioned him to continue, so Ewing launched into his Big Speech.

"The Fire Service in the Pine Barrens don't have a clue what they're doing!" he began, taking a deep breath. "It's shambolic! There's been six fires in as many days, and what are they doing about it, that's what I want to know!"

"The arson team are working alongside the police on it sir, but you have to appreciate that there's a lot of evidence to process and a lot of scenes to process," Emily explained, patiently. "Chief Carter, who I believe you know, asked us to come in and assist because there have been so many in so short a space of time."

"Well, I'm glad you're here," Ewing barked, not quite ready to relinquish his righteous disapproval just yet. "It's getting out of hand – people are getting hurt."

"Yes sir, that's why we need to catch this person before they hurt anyone else," Spencer agreed.

"You're right there, young man – uh, I mean, Doctor."

Spencer smiled at the use of his title, as Ewing expected him to. It made him uncomfortable, when people tried to make out that acknowledging his academic achievements was some kind of compliment. It wasn't just that those degrees had been the result of several years of hard work – and of which he was proud; 'Doctor' was just a part of who he was, like 'SSA' and (according to Grace) 'pain in the ass'. It didn't need to be bandied around – particularly by someone who was only using it to try to ingratiate himself.

"I have an uncle at Tall Pines," he said, after a moment. "Did you know that? Mitch Ewing. He served in the American Air Force."

Both Emily and Spencer made noises of polite interest.

"You must be very proud of him," Emily said.

"Of course I am, young lady!" Ewing scoffed dismissively. "My _point_ was," he continued, as if it were they who had digressed, "he was in the common room when the fire broke out. _He_ told me no one went near the corner where the fire broke out, aside from the two victims and Earl, the kitchen boy who brought them their tea. What do you make of that?"

Spencer thought back to the many people he had helped interview only a few hours previously. They had all been shaken by the fire and the loss of their friends, but they had been more than happy to help. He remembered Mitch Ewing, a gentle, elderly man who had been very polite – far more pleasant than his nephew; he _had_ told them that there had been no one near that corner (as had most of the residents) aside from Maisie Reese, Beaumont Rogers and Earl Tibbetts, but he had made the statement far less loaded.

"Are you suggesting that Earl Tibbetts started the fire?" Emily asked, careful to keep any kind of emotion out of her voice. If Tibbetts was a viable suspect, this guy didn't need to know about it.

"No," said Ewing at once, "of course not!" He looked cross for a moment, and then leaned forward, almost candidly. "But don't you think it's odd that he's the only one who's been seen in the area at the time?"

"We have witnesses saying that he served tea to everyone in the room," said Spencer fairly, wondering what Ewing had against the friendly young man. "Including your uncle."

"He's a bad sort, that boy," Ewing complained, not to be distracted with logic. "Got kicked out of school for God knows what – drugs probably – and then the idiots in charge of _Tall Pines_ gave him a job. I mean, he's got _tattoos!_ I ask you! He's got access to everyone's rooms – I bet he rifles through everyone's belongings. You ought to check his locker!"

"Theft is a serious accusation," Emily told him, raising an eyebrow. "You're welcome to make a formal complaint against Mr Tibbetts if you like –"

"No, no," Ewing interrupted, sounding faintly panicked. "No. I'm just saying. I'm not going to do your job for you young lady!"

0o0

Derek Morgan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He and Pearce had been stuck in a small room with Barbara Millette for less than ten minutes and already he felt like climbing the walls. That or throttle her.

She was, hands down, one of the most odious people he had ever encountered. She had started out ranting about the incompetence of the police and the fire service, then moved onto the FBI and (for reasons best known to herself) the local Catholic Church.

She had been extremely rude to both of them, justifying each thinly-veiled insult with the phrase 'As a mother…'

Every time either of them had tried to answer her questions, she had interrupted.

"Miss Millette," Pearce tried again, sounding a good deal more patient than Derek felt.

" _Ms_ Millette! I _was_ married when I had my children thank you – unlike some!"

"Ms Millette," Pearce repeated, without even blinking, "every effort is being made to identify the person setting these fires."

"You're ignoring a Key Suspect," she said, with great importance.

Derek could almost hear the capital letters she had given the words. He leaned forward, interested. "Who?"

Ms Millette tutted. "You should already know."

"How about you help us out, since we don't?" Pearce asked, just managing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Under the table, Derek gave her shin a gentle, warning tap with his boot.

"You should be talking to Missy Carpenter," she sniffed. "And not just talking to her. You should arrest her!"

"For arson?"

"For leading the local youth astray!" she snapped, adding, almost as an afterthought, "And arson, yes. It's definitely her. It has to be. She's _not from here_."

The clear, undisputable 'logic' of this statement was lost on Derek, and apparently on Pearce too. "Do you have any evidence connecting her to the fires?" she asked.

"No, not as such, but –"

"Have you seen, or heard anyone else say they've seen her near the sites of any of the fires?"

"She was at the bus shelter in Manchester on Friday – the day before the fire!" Ms Millette told them, with an air of triumph.

"What was she doing?" Derek asked.

"She was hanging around."

"Did she get on a bus?" Pearce asked, her face and voice a careful, police blank.

"Yes."

"Do you think maybe that's why she was at the bus stop?"

"No! She was definitely up to something! Casing it, probably, or whatever it's called!"

Pearce took a deep breath and opened her mouth, but she clearly changed her mind at the last moment because she closed it firmly again.

"What about these kids she's been leadin' astray?" Derek asked, steering them firmly away from the bus stop in Manchester.

"It's utterly distasteful," said Ms Millette, rubbing her hands as if ridding them of dirt. "All I'll say is that kids go into that candy store of hers normal, happy and obedient, and they come out with Ideas."

"Ideas?"

"Yes!"

"What kind of ideas?" Pearce asked, apparently genuinely interested.

She was probably hoping to find a reference to something occult, Derek decided. Her speciality could seem like a bit more of a hobby at times. Sometimes she was disturbingly eager about dribbly candles. He'd half expected to find a cauldron somewhere in her house, but he hadn't as yet. Possibly she kept it out of sight when she had guests.

Ms Millette screwed up her face as though she had smelled something unpleasant. "Unsavoury Ideas." He hand went to her throat again. "As a _mother_ , I call that unacceptable."

The interview room fell silent for the first time; it became obvious that she wasn't going to expand further. Derek didn't really want her to. He wondered whether some of the kids who had developed Ideas were Ms Millette's, or if they hadn't been allowed near it.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid we're going to need slightly more than that if you want us to –"

"What I want is for you to do your jobs! What happens next, hmm?" she demanded, slapping a thin, perfectly manicured hand on the table with an audible snap. "What happens if the next target is a school? Or a nursery? As a _mother_ ," she continued, delicately touching the chain around her neck. "I think it's unacceptable that such a risk to our children should be allowed to continue!"

"Miss Millette –" Derek began.

" _Ms!_ "

"I'm sorry, Ms Millette. There's no evidence to suggest that this unsub will target children," Derek said, attempting to mollify the horrible woman.

"But that doesn't mean that they won't!" she retorted. "You don't have children, either of you. I can tell. I have children. I know what's best for them!"

Sorely tempted to suggest that having their mother sectioned would be favourite right now, Derek tried again. "Ma'am, your children are at no more risk than anyone else right now."

"The whole community is at risk – are you dense?" she snapped. "Someone should _do_ something – and if you're not prepared to do it –"

"We _are_ doing it," said Pearce, in a strangely compelling voice. "You need to calm down, Ms Millette."

For a moment, Barbara Millette looked confused, as if she wasn't sure what she was doing. Derek glanced sideways at Pearce, but she didn't seem to have noticed; she was looking at the woman with a cool, steady gaze.

"The Arson Investigation Team asked us to come in to give them the best possible chance of catching this arsonist," Pearce continued.

"The – the community –" Millette stammered, as though she was having a hard time concentrating. "As a mother…"

"The community needs to stay calm and alert, while we catch this arsonist."

Derek glanced at Pearce again; there was definitely something weird going on, and their resident Brit was sort of the cheerleader for weird. She was still staring directly at Millette, unwavering. What had JJ said about that crowd in Ohio? They had moved away like they'd been hypnotised?

"The community…" All at once, Barbara Millette seemed to come back to herself. "The community needs to _do_ something!" she shrieked. Collecting herself for a moment, she glared at the agents. "Something you and the useless idiots here seem incapable of – or maybe you just don't want to!" She sprang to her feet, furious. "That's it, isn't it? You're too lazy, too frightened of what people will think to take action!"

"Ma'am –" Derek said, raising a placating hand.

"None of you are worth _my_ tax dollars!"

Pearce sat back, a pained expression on her face. Derek followed suit, dismissing the crazy notion that his colleague might have been hypnotising her. There was plainly no way to get Ms Millette to listen. They might as well let her shout herself out.

"I'm not going to sit here and be insulted by a jumped up secretary and a glorified thug," she sniffed.

The two agents watched, silently, as she grabbed her purse, flounced out of the interview room and slammed the door behind her.

After a moment, Pearce remarked, "You know, if we cut her up into little bits and buried her in the woods, I don't think anyone would mind."

Derek snorted. "I worry about you sometimes," he said, and patted her shoulder.

"Wow, that was a powerful kind of stupid," she reflected, rubbing her face.

"Yeah," Derek agreed tiredly. "But at least she gave us a name."

 **0o0**

 ***This goes without saying really, but DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. You'll probably set fire to yourself, your clothes, your house and your friends. I'm not kidding.**


	13. No Flames Please

**Essential listening: Big Hero from a Small Town, by Oh No Not Stereo**

 **0o0**

Dave watched Frank Dunphy carefully as he spoke quietly and assuredly about his concerns for the community. He was, in almost every way, an average man: average build, average colouring, average clothes, average haircut. Every inch an 'everyman'. A fact which, Dave had no doubt, he played upon to great effect.

He was doing it now, trying to win them both over; fortunately, he and Hotch weren't having any of it.

"It is quite frightening," he was saying, "for everyone here – particularly families. Oh, I know none of the fires have been in places where kids could get hurt," he said, as if sensing that they were about to speak, "but it's difficult to separate that anxiety from the rest – it's all sort of amplified when you're a parent."

Aaron nodded. "It is."

A genuine smile crossed Dunphy's lips. "How old?"

"Four, and I don't get to see him as much as I like," the senior agent replied. "Work."

"Mine's thirteen," said Dunphy, with something of a rueful smile. "I don't get to see her as much as I'd like either. She's the reason I care so much about this," he added, tapping his finger on the table. "My wife died when she was quite young – car wreck, out at Buddtown. She was a nurse, visiting her patients and her car slipped on the ice…"

Dave frowned slightly. This, at least, was true. Frank Dunphy struck him as the kind of man who could use the truth to his advantage. He wondered how many times he had told this story to strengthen his arguments.

"It took a great toll on us both – on Faye especially, since she was so small. Not much older than your boy," he nodded sadly at Aaron. "I promised Faye's mother that I would take care of her, so I started the neighbourhood watch in Browns Mills, where we live. It kind of grew from there." He chuckled. "Now I speak at every community group from Pemberton to Manchester Township."

"That's very admirable," said Aaron, politely.

"Well, it's my duty," he shrugged. "Just like you folks. I know I'm making a difference, you see." He frowned. "I came in here today because I knew you guys would be pulling out all the stops to find this arsonist, and I wanted to offer my assistance, and that of the neighbourhood watch network. We're pretty active in the Pines, as you can probably tell."

He gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

"We'd very much appreciate that," said Aaron.

"What do you need?"

"Right now, the last thing we need is a panic," said Dave. "It would put far more lives at risk, so if you could urge your groups to try to keep calm while we're looking for this unsub, that would really help."

"Absolutely. Will do."

Although he was hiding it well, Frank Dunphy looked very slightly annoyed that this was the most they could think of.

"You're best placed in your community to do that," Aaron explained. "People trust you."

That seemed to cheer him up a little, if only very slightly.

"Also, given how widespread this neighbourhood watch network is, you guys probably notice when someone's behaviour is off, yes?" Dave asked.

"I like to think so," said Dunphy, sitting up a little straighter.

"Good. Is there anyone you can think of that started acting oddly around the time the fires started – or has been seen at each of the fire scenes, anything suspicious?"

"Like buying a couple gallons of gas?" Dunphy asked, quirking a smile.

"That kind of thing," Aaron agreed.

There was no point giving the man everything. In fact, it would be better not to: he was likely to tell as many people as he could anything he got from the Arson Investigation Team or the FBI.

"As a matter of fact, there is someone who has been acting strange lately," he said, rubbing his chin. "There's a woman who lives out in the woods, to the east of Presidential Lakes, across Highway 70, on an old farm on the bank of Mount Misery Brook. Comes to town sometimes. She's been about a lot more the last few weeks, starting right about when the fires started."

"Where have you seen her?" Dave asked, conscious that they weren't looking for a female unsub.

"County Lakes, Presidential Lakes, Pemberton, Manchester and Browns Mills," he said. "Not doing anything suspicious you know, but usually she stays pretty close to the woods. She was at an open day at _Tall Pines_ recently, too."

That got their attention.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Does she have family who might want to move there?"

"Not that I know, but I only really know her by sight, you know?" Dunphy admitted. "I think her parents must be dead, come to think of it, 'cause she inherited their farm." He met their eyes, each in turn. "I don't mean to speak ill of my neighbours, you understand, but she's… she's always been a little odd, from what I've heard. People avoid her."

"She got a name?" Dave asked.

"Purdy," said Dunphy at once. "I think her Christian name is Rosie or Rosa, or something like that."

"Well, we'll look into it," Aaron assured him, getting to his feet. "Thank you for your help."

Dunphy followed suit, holding out his hand for them both to shake. "It's no trouble, no trouble at all." He chuckled and looked down for a moment. "Look, I know Barbara and Randy can get a little over-enthusiastic at times, but we really do just want the best for this community, for our families."

"We can understand that," Dave assured him.

They watched him leave, thoughtfully.

"He seems genuinely concerned," Dave observed.

Aaron only nodded, declining to comment.

Dave chuckled. "Yeah."

0o0

JJ sat heavily in a chair at the front of the room, feeling pregnant and irritated. While the others had been busy interviewing the three 'helpful citizens', she and Garcia had been chasing down purchases of rubbing alcohol. They had hit a brick wall; bulk orders were largely restricted to doctors' offices, pharmacies and the local hospital, and everyone else bought it over the counter, frequently without a credit card or even a receipt.

It was the kind of information they might be able to cross check with later, but right now, they needed a name.

She rubbed a hand over her face. The size of the area they were dealing with on this one was vast – and that was assuming that the unsub had only been setting fires in the region covered by the Pine Barrens Combined Fire Department. Even the map Spencer had been using for his geographic profiling covered three boards.

Her eyes followed Frank Dunphy as he left the interrogation room and joined his two friends in the waiting area just on the other side of the reception desks. Millette was maintaining a state of righteous anger, while Ewing seemed to be in the grip of both annoyance and anxiety; compared to them, Dunphy looked calm and collected. He was smiling slightly, and as he herded them both out of the front door, JJ wondered whether it wasn't more of a smirk.

"Urgh," Emily exclaimed, dropping a cup of caffeine-free tea on the table in front of JJ and claiming the seat next to her. "Well, that was probably a waste of time."

"Anything useful?" JJ asked, looking between Emily and Spencer, who had just drifted over from the kitchen area.

Spencer screwed up his face. "He really doesn't like the kid who put out the fire," he said, obviously trying to think of something nice about Ewing. "He's… anxious about his uncle."

"Anxiety is one thing," said Emily, dully, "but making random accusations and warning us about not doing our jobs is just pointless."

"You got that right," Morgan put in, joining Emily at the table.

Grace leaned against it instead. "I can totally understand why Ash hates them. That Millette woman is a right piece of work."

"I knew y'all would get along," Ash remarked, coming over with a sheaf of papers.

"You must have the patience of a saint, dealin' with them every week," Morgan observed, with a sly grin, which Ash returned.

"Oh, you know it, honey."

Everyone chuckled – though Pearce also rolled her eyes at them.

"We got a name – anything useful come out of the other interviews?" Hotch asked briskly, jolting them back into investigation-mode.

"Randy Ewing is one hundred percent certain that Earl Tibbetts – the guy who works in the kitchens at _Tall Pines_ and put out the fire – is on drugs, stealing things and setting fires all over the place," Emily volunteered. "But he didn't make a formal complaint because he 'didn't want to tell you how to do your job, young lady!'"

She punctuated the last sentence by wagging her finger in JJ's direction, who grimaced.

"Really?"

"Really."

"I promise the rest of the inhabitants of the Pines aren't this weird," said Ash mournfully.

"Hey," said Rossi, with a conciliatory smile, "everywhere has someone who thinks they should run the world."

"We got a name," said Grace, in a tone that suggested she was just as unimpressed with the whole thing. She and Morgan told them about Barbara Millette's 'she's not from here and she caught a bus last week' theory.

"Missy Carpenter," said Ash, without missing a beat. "She's from New York. Runs a candy store in County Lakes. I don't know anythin' about leadin' kids astray, but from what I know of her, she's a straight-up kind of woman. She speaks her mind, which is probably why Barbara doesn't like her." She looked across the table at Grace. "That's who I was thinkin' they'd try to throw under the bus."

"You said there was more than one," Grace pointed out, adding, "I mean, more than one likely target for finger-pointing," on the rest of the teams' baffled looks.

"Yeah," Ash mused. "I wonder if we can make it two-for-two?" She looked at Hotch and Rossi.

"Rose Purdy?" Rossi asked.

"Bingo!" The chief pointed her finger at Rossi, miming shooting him. "Though it's Rosemary. Quiet lady, keeps herself to herself. She sells preserves and pickles and such at the farmers' markets around the Pines. Makes a mean lime curd. Lives in the woods."

"So basically they want us to look at two women that don't fit their cultural norms and one kid who has tattoos?" Emily asked. "Urgh, give me a break!"

"I know," said Hotch, heavily. "But Earl Tibbetts does fit the profile, and while the other two probably have nothing to do with this, we can rule them out quickly enough. They might even have seen something, if they are regular bus commuters."

He had been dialling as he spoke, and he put the phone down on the table, giving the customary warning. "Garcia, you're on loudspeaker."

" _What do you need, my fearless warriors for karma?"_

Chief Carter smiled. "I like her."

"We need you to run a couple of background checks: Earl Tibbetts, Missy Carpenter and Rosemary Purdy, all currently resident in or around the Pine Barrens," Hotch instructed.

" _Yes sir! Three potted histories coming right up – would you like fries with that?"_

"Garcia," Morgan warned, as the others snickered.

She ignored him.

" _Earl Tibbetts, nineteen years old. Never been in trouble. Graduated from high school last year with good grades and a place at an art school in New York…"_ There was a pause. _"Looks like he applied to defer his start date last fall, just before he shoulda embarked on his bright college days. It was accepted."_

 _Promising_ , thought JJ.

"I bet he wasn't too pleased about that," Rossi observed. "Can you find out why?"

" _One step ahead of ya – he's made a quiet impact on the blogosphere. He writes about art and photography, and he's got some pretty sweet stuff in his portfolio. I wonder if he sells prints…"_

"Focus," Hotch admonished, but he was smiling.

" _Right. He talks about his aunt Vera, who raised him after his parents died, how much she means to him, wouldn't be where he is without her support, yada yada yada,"_ she rattled off, cheerily. _"Well, she, Vera of the eternal support, had a bad fall in the woods, broke both legs the week before he was due to move to college."_

"He stayed home to take care of her," Spencer guessed.

" _Got it in one, Boy Genius!"_

"Anything in the blog suggest rage?" Grace asked.

" _Nope, he seems pretty well-adjusted – he volunteers after hours at the old folks home where he works, runs a painting class and a photography course and puts the residents' pictures up on the blog."_

"I think we can safely cross him off our list," said Emily.

" _Okay. The spotlight rolls onto – drumroll please – Missy Carpenter, fifty-two, proprietor of what looks like the best candy store in the history of time. Seriously – you'd have to carry me out in a diabetic coma."_

JJ rolled her eyes, chuckling. Trust Garcia to see the lighter side.

" _Came to the Pine Barrens in '97, after what I can only describe as the mother of all bad break-ups."_

Grace frowned. "Domestic disturbance?"

" _You got it. Her ex-husband has restraining orders coming out of his ears, from her, their old neighbours and the city of New York civil court building where the divorce was finalised."_

"The court building?" JJ asked, surprised. "That's unusual."

" _Yeah, well, Mr Butter Wouldn't Melt was pretty pissed that his twenty years of domestic bliss was done and he bit the judge."_

All around the table, eyebrows shot upwards. Grace gave a low whistle.

" _He served three months and then dropped off the map when he got out. Looks like – oh, poor Missy! She was in and out of hospital for the better part of two decades with 'accidental injuries', which I'm guessing should have read 'assault and battery'."_

Chief Carter sucked the air through her teeth. "I never knew," she remarked.

"Well, it's not the sort of thing you'd talk about really, if you'd moved away to try to forget about it," said Grace.

Several pairs of eyes nonchalantly flicked in her direction, including JJ's; she saw both Spencer and Chief Carter frown at their friend, and wondered – not for the first time – what Grace had left behind in London. She could be so cagey about her past.

"She got anythin' in her record about kids?" Morgan asked.

" _Nothing inappropriate, sweet-cheeks,"_ Garcia replied. _"Apart from that, all I got are wholesale purchases relating to a candy store – and I can tell you right now, those are making me hungry!"_

"Any ingredients for flammable gel?" Emily added.

" _Nope."_

"Then either she's nothing to do with this, or she's getting them somewhere else," said Hotch.

"I thought you guys said in your profile that we were lookin' for a guy – thirteen to twenty-five," Chief Carter pointed out.

"We also said it was preliminary," Rossi told her. "The number of female arsonists is low – extremely low –"

"Only six percent," Spencer added, helpfully.

"But not unheard of," Rossi finished. "And while a profile can point you in the right direction, often with great accuracy, there are always anomalies. That's when you start updating the literature to help people out the next time."

"What about the last one, Rosemary Purdy?" JJ asked.

" _She's a tougher cookie,"_ Garcia announced. _"Very low internet presence. I can tell you she applied for a special license to bury each of her parents on their farm when they died, seven and twelve years ago."_

"Granted?" Hotch asked.

" _Yup. She's got one tiny, private cemetery in her backyard."_

"Any accidents, parent's birthdays, anniversaries of deaths in the last few weeks?" Spencer asked.

" _I see what you're thinking, anything that might have triggered Miss Tough Cookie to start smoking – and not in the usual way…"_ They waited, reasonably patiently, as Garcia tapped urgently away at her keyboard. _"Oh, here's something – her mother's birthday was last week and, get this, it's only a day apart from the date her dad died."_

There was a sort of collective resettling, as if everyone was suddenly thinking of Rosemary Purdy as a much more viable suspect.

" _She has a bank account with reasonable funds in it and a license for a truck, but that's about it. A few years back she had a bunch of solar panels put in."_

"Well, you said she keeps herself to herself," Grace said, nodding in Carter's direction. "I bet she lives mostly off the grid. Any unusual account activity, Garcia?"

" _Um… She bought a litre of rubbing alcohol from a wholesaler last month."_

"That's worth a look," said Hotch. "We'll –"

He paused as Deputy Fire Marshall Harman appeared, waiting patiently for a break in the conversation.

"I hate to piss on your barbecue," he said, as Hotch motioned for him to speak, "but I just got word that Frank Dunphy and his neighbourhood watch coalition are holding a general meeting in County Lakes tonight, about the fires."

"Oh man, that's just what we need," Morgan complained. "He'll start a stampede."

"You want us to ask the police to shut it down?" Carter asked, her hand already on her phone.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, we'll use it – it'll be a good opportunity to calm things down. Okay, Dave, Prentiss, I want you two to go and speak to Missy Carpenter. If she's not involved and it's one of the local kids, she might be able to point us in the right direction. Try to find out if there's anything to Barbara Millette's insinuations.

"Reid, Pearce, you head out to speak to Rosemary Purdy. I'm guessing that she doesn't like visitors, so don't call ahead. If you see anything that makes you think she's our unsub, don't hang around," he added, with a pointed look at Reid, who nodded emphatically. "Sound her out.

"JJ and I'll head to this meeting, try to calm things down. Morgan, I want you there too, observing the crowd." He nodded at Carter. "Might be a good idea for you to give a fire safety talk."

"Whatever you say, Agent Hotchner," said the chief, pulling off a salute. "I'll stand with the cutie and keep an eye out!"

She hurried off to marshal half a dozen officers for a small-scale demonstration, Morgan grinning appreciatively after her.

"I can't tell if she's taking the mickey," Rossi observed, amused. "Or if she's taking this seriously."

Grace grinned. "With Ash, it's always a little bit of both."

" _Who's cute?"_ Garcia asked from the table.

"Morgan," said JJ.

" _Obviously, but she didn't need to point it out!"_

"Hey now, Babygirl, don't be jealous now."

" _Who's jealous? Not I! I am zen. Hit me back when you need something, hot stuff."_

0o0

Ash was just putting the last of her display materials in her truck – just in case – when Grace caught up with her.

"So, Missy Carpenter and Rosemary Purdy?" she asked, that classic 'what aren't you telling me' look on her face.

Ash chuckled. "May Purdy, Rosemary's Mom, used to do readin's out of the farm – palms and cards – and from what I hear, Rosemary inherited her mother's talent. I think Missy lets her use the back room at the candy store for a drop-in every other Thursday."

"And the neighbourhood watch aren't too happy about that," Grace guessed.

"No ma'am. It's still an under the table kind of service –"

"As most readings tend to be, even now," Grace nodded.

"So they don't have any evidence." She shrugged. "Not that that stopped 'em last time."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled," Grace promised. "Though you know, if she does have _particular_ talents, then she wouldn't need matches."

 _Which might explain the infuriatin' lack of an ignition source,_ Ash mused, watching her friend beat the tall, skinny doctor to one of the SUVs and wave the keys at him triumphantly.

0o0

It was long past closing time when Dave and Prentiss arrived at Missy Carpenter's front door. She answered it warily, recognising a law enforcement stance when she saw it, the security chain still firmly in place.

"Yes?"

"Missy Carpenter?"

"Depends on who you are," she said, looking them up and down through the crack in the door.

"Agents David Rossi and Emily Prentiss, FBI," said Dave, flashing his badge.

"FBI?" Carpenter repeated, astonished. "Hold up, I'm gonna need a closer look at those badges."

Prentiss handed hers through the crack in the door and Missy read it carefully, before returning it and repeating the process with Dave's.

 _Life has taught her to be wary_ , he thought, as he pocketed it.

"If this is about my ex-husband, I don't wanna know," she said flatly.

"No ma'am," said Prentiss. "Can we come in?"

A pair of deep, brown eyes regarded them both steadily for a moment. "Alright," she said, and closed the door enough to take the chain off. "Better come in the kitchen though, I got a pet tiger in the lounge and he doesn't like men."

The 'pet tiger' turned out to be a well-fed tabby with only one ear and a healthy disdain for humanity. He hissed and took a swipe at Dave's pants' leg on the way past, but he managed to dodge out of the way.

"Got Rambo from a shelter – I think some guy musta messed him up, 'cause he's always like that around men. I'm not gonna apologise for him, so you better stay out of his reach."

"Noted," said Dave, skirting around the kitchen table, as far from Rambo as he could get.

Missy laughed at him, but she also shut the door, which was probably a vote of confidence. She motioned for them to sit.

"What can I do for the FBI?"

"We're looking into the recent fires around the Pine Barrens," Emily explained.

"Oh, that." She laughed, looking relieved. "I thought you were gonna tell me my ex was makin' his way through the country, headin' straight for me!"

"We were wondering if you'd seen or heard anything unusual."

"Not more than usual," Missy shrugged, considerably more relaxed. "People are always a little weird in small towns though – that's why I like it. Feels like home."

Dave smiled; he couldn't help it. Missy had a magnetic sort of personality – dented a little by her awful marriage, but not destroyed.

"People have been a bit on edge this last week – there's been a lot of talk about the forest fires in '95," she told them. "I wasn't here back then, but I saw it on the TV." She shook her head. "I don't blame them for being on edge – it looked like hell on earth."

"We're looking into the possibility that it might be a younger offender," said Dave. "Have you heard anything that might be suspicious, given your occupation?"

Missy laughed again. "You mean has anyone divulged a need to light up the town over their taffy? No, I'm afraid not. The kids around here are all pretty grounded, if I'm honest. Probably the worst you're gonna get is a handful of DUIs."

"That's good to know," said Dave.

"That's not the only reason you're here, is it?" she guessed, assessing their expressions.

"We've had some allegations that you might be…" Emily frowned, trying to find a way to put it that wouldn't make her sound as nuts as their source. "Providing a bad influence for the kids."

Missy's eyes narrowed. "That would be Barbara Millette told you that," she said, sharply. "Though I imagine she used less flatterin' words. Now there's a woman with stick up her ass. You want me to show you what I talk about with the kids?"

She relaxed a little and went to a drawer in her kitchen counter. From it she extracted a bundle of leaflets, which she handed to Emily; Dave read their titles over her shoulder.

"Sex-Ed, recognising the signs of abuse…" Emily said, flicking through them. "There's nothing here a school counsellor wouldn't give out."

Missy snorted. "Yeah, if they weren't afraid Barbara Millette and her morality brigade wouldn't bang the door down as soon as one of the kids took one home." She shook her head. "If you've looked into the kids comin' to my shop then you'll know about my past. I don't want anythin' like that happenin' to those kids – so I give them the kind of advice they can't ask for at home. I help 'em fill out college applications, too."

"I don't think we need to take up any more of your time," Dave decided, getting to his feet. "Thank you for being so understanding."

Missy nodded. "You got a job to do, that's all," she said, shaking both their hands. "Got a feeling yours and mine'd be a damn sight easier without Ms Millette pokin' her size-ten nose in everywhere."

"You may be right there," said Emily, with a grin.

"I'll let you know if I hear anythin' about the fires," said Missy. "Gimme one of your cards." She took one of Emily's and escorted them to the door. "Hope you catch 'em – I don't wanna have to rebuild the candy store. Took most of what I got the first time around!"

 **0o0**

 **Thank you to Emilie Addison, for helping me get my roads and my highways untangled :)**


	14. Keep it Cool

**Essential listening: Darkside Wood, by Chris While and Julie Matthews**

 **0o0**

"Your cruel device, your blood, like ice – one look, could kill; my pain, your thrill!"

"This really isn't necessary."

"I wanna love you, but I better not touch (don't touch). I wanna hold you, but my senses tell me to stop!"

"Uh – Grace…"

"I wanna kiss you, but I want it too much (too much)! I wanna taste you, but your lips are venomous poison! Aah-aah-aah!"

"Grace."

"You're poison, running through my veins! You're poison! Aah-aah-aah! I don't want to break these chains!"

" _Grace!_ I swear to God I'm gonna make you pull over and take the keys off you!"

Grace burst out laughing. "Now that I would like to see, Doctor."

"I am _not_ kidding!"

"Fine, _fine_ …" she said, turning the radio down. "I thought it was driver's choice."

"Driver's choice is fine, but I'd like to arrive at our interview with my eardrums intact!"

She glanced at him and he glared back, which only made her laugh harder. Even out of the corner of her eye she saw the moment when he cracked and the smile started to break out over his face. He turned away to hide it.

"What, genius wasn't enough and suddenly you're a music critic too?" she asked, not even bothering to conceal her own grin.

"No – I've got nothing against Alice Cooper, it's more the method of delivery."

She scoffed, pretending to take offence and he hurried to appease her.

"Not that your singing isn't good – usually – but in a contained environment, like an SUV –"

"It's out of tune?"

"No! It's just like having a third, very loud passenger."

Grace snorted. She glanced at him again; he was still quite pink with annoyance and utterly unable to prevent himself grinning. It was a very good combination, she decided, trying to ignore the little flutter her heart gave at the sight of it.

"I really hate you sometimes," he said, out of the other window.

"No you don't," said Grace. "I'm just a little vexing from time to time, that's all."

It was his turn to snort.

"Besides," she added, almost to herself, "it wouldn't be half so much fun winding you up if you weren't so cute when you're cross."

Spencer's head snapped around at that; she hadn't intended to say it aloud, and she blushed slightly, even as the words left her mouth, but there wasn't anything she could do about it now, so she brushed it off as banter.

"Speaking of our impending interview, Master Navigator, are we anywhere near?" she asked, changing the subject. "We seem to have been going for some time."

"Um," said Spencer, fumbling with the map on his lap. "There was supposed to be a turning on the left…"

Grace looked around, surprised. The woods stretched out for miles on each side of them, the clear, golden evening light filtering through a million leaves. It was very beautiful, all white cedar and fir, interspersed with waterlily ponds. It would be a wonderful place to go walking in, and for a moment that was all she could think of; roaming the woods of an evening, the scent of cedar and pine in the air, coming back to a warm cabin with a roaring fire and a bottle of wine…

"I haven't seen one," Grace remarked, distracted. "Or on the right, either. I just assumed this was one of those endless forest management roads."

"No, it – well, yeah, it is, but –" Spencer paused. "This isn't right…"

"We took a wrong turn?"

"No – we can't have…"

He sounded troubled, and this time when she turned to him, his expression was clouded with confusion.

"Grace," he said, perturbed. "I think the map's changed."

"What?"

"The map – it's different than when we set out."

"It can't be," she told him. "You're just on the wrong page or something."

"No – I'm serious, I looked at it before we turned into the woods and it was totally different!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Grace admonished, but she sounded much less certain.

It was one thing to tell someone they were imagining things, or that they were mistaken, had forgotten – but when that person had an eidetic memory…

"Are you certain?"

"One hundred percent!" he assured her. "This – these aren't the same roads I was looking at before."

There was a brief, tense silence; Grace pulled off to the side of the road.

"Show me."

He did, with such certainty that she had no choice but to believe him.

"It's impossible," he said, and then looked at her as if it had occurred to him that 'impossible' wasn't quite the same for someone like Grace. "Isn't it?"

Grace bit her lip. "Depends."

She could feel his eyes on her; his frown deepened as he waited for her to elaborate.

"On what?" he demanded, suddenly snappish. "You know, I'm getting so tired of you being so cryptic all the time. You give me just enough information to shut me up."

"I know," Grace winced. It was the truth. She was just so used to keeping people at arm's length. "But there's so much of it – there's not usually time. Like now – do you want the abridged answer, or the encyclopaedia version?"

"Abridged," he decided, obviously frustrated.

She took the map out of his hands and turned it over a couple of times, peering closely. "It's not the map." Next, she stared her own reflection in the rear view mirror for a moment; there were always signs, even if someone was careful. "No," she mused, after a few seconds of intense study. "My eyes are clear."

Spencer was still frowning at her when she turned and laid her palm against his forehead.

"What are you –"

"You asked for the abridged version."

To his evident astonishment, she moved closer until their noses were nearly touching, gazing intently into his eyes. She could feel his frustration giving way to discomfort, but she had to be sure.

He licked his lips. "Grace…"

"And you're clean, too," she said. Relieved, she lowered her hand. "Which means –"

"Clean?"

"Abridged version."

"Abridged with notes, then!"

Grace sighed, frowning. It was difficult to explain, particularly to someone with such faith in science – and such a fear of his own mind.

"The easiest thing to mess with if you wanted someone to get lost would be the map," she explained, tersely. "If you couldn't get at that, or you knew that would be noticed, you'd cast on the people you wanted to get lost."

"On us," he realised.

"Yes – make us unable to read the map or see any turnings."

Spencer swallowed, glancing out of the window. He turned back, worried now. "But we're both okay?"

Grace nodded and patted his hand. "We're fine."

"So, no one's messing with us? But the map –"

"It's not us and it's not the map, even though it looks different. It's not what has been messed with."

"What does that leave?"

Grace looked out into the gold tipped forest. "Let's turn around, see if we missed the turning," she said, making her mind up.

He must have caught the expression on her face, because he didn't protest at her lack of explanation. "I'll call Garcia, see if she can give us directions."

"Good idea," said Grace, turning the car around.

"Uh, Grace?" Spencer's voice had gone from 'worried, but we're dealing with it' to 'I'm right on the edge of freaking out over here'. "My cell doesn't have any signal."

0o0

JJ ran her eyes over the crowd.

The people of the Pines had come to the meeting scared, been riled up by the heads of the Neighbourhood Watch network and then calmed down considerably by Hotch's certainty and the sarcastic good humour of Chief Carter. They were laughing now, as she gave a demonstration on how to put out a gel fire, forcing Morgan to be her glamourous assistant.

JJ hid a smile. Grace's old friend seemed to be having quite an amusing effect on him. They were getting on like a house on fire – which wasn't a great analogy, right at the moment.

She met Hotch's eyes across the hall; no one had moved from their seat since the first speaker had begun, and there had only been two late-comers, who Frank Dunphy had ushered in as Hotch was giving his version of the Keep Calm and Carry On routine. Everyone seemed interested and willing to be there, which said something for the general nature of the Pines. If they could get these people keeping an eye out for the right things, they might have a shot at catching this creep.

She might have been tempted to give them the preliminary profile, but JJ knew her team too well for that. Before they could, they needed to refine it – particularly with people like Ewing, Millette and Dunphy stirring to their heart's content.

They needed more information. Really, they needed another fire…

JJ sighed.

 _Just once,_ she mused, _it would be nice to get through a case without generating a mountain of corpses._

She straightened her back as the room gave Chief Carter and Morgan (who really did appear to be enjoying himself, despite the circumstances) a round of applause and joined in with the clapping.

"Alright everyone," called Frank Dunphy, making his way to the front. "You've all heard what these good folks from the FBI and our own Arson Investigation Team have had to say. Keep calm, keep vigilant, and keep talkin'. We have a strong community here, and no one is going to take that away from us – are they?"

The crowd murmured in that self-conscious way people do when, tired after a long day of work, someone on a stage requires them to make a response.

"Are they?" he asked again, louder.

JJ cringed. Apart from the similarity to a bad stand-up act, he was essentially offering a challenge to the arsonist, and if they were here…

"No," chorused the crowd, reluctantly.

"I can't hear you," said Dunphy, clearly rather enjoying himself. "I said, are we going to let a measly, two-bit arsonist take our community spirit away from us?"

JJ tensed as the crowd assured him that no, they weren't. Surely it must have been her imagination, but she could have sworn she smelled smoke…

"That's what I thought!" Dunphy roared. "And you know what I say to this arsonist?"

Trying to sniff the air as unobtrusively as possible, JJ frowned. There it was, just on the edge of her senses, pressing in.

Smoke.

She felt her pulse quicken.

A few of the nearest Pines residents had noticed it too – they were looking around, at each other, at her. Suddenly, one of them leapt to his feet, pointing at the back of the stage.

"Smoke!" he cried.

His neighbours gasped and cried out, afraid.

Frank Dunphy, astonished at the interruption, blinked at the man; Barbara Millette, on the other hand, who had been standing sentinel at his side, whirled around and uttered a short scream. The back of the stage was filling up with smoke – at an alarming rate.

"Alright folks, I want y'all to stay calm," Chief Carter called, loud enough for her voice to carry over the frightened noises of the crowd. "These agents are gonna lead you to the front doors in a calm and orderly manner, while I put that hot mess out."

She strode towards the back of the stage, pulling the fire axe from her belt; Morgan moved to help her while Hotch shouted for those closest to the doors to open them. JJ looked over her shoulder as people shuffled towards the doors, just on the edge of panic. Carter had waved Morgan to the far side of the stage from her, both of them obscured by the tabs. There was the sound of an axe hitting something under tension, before the fire curtain crashed to the floor, raising up a storm of dust.

JJ pulled her scarf over her mouth – in combination with the smoke it was getting hard to breathe. Her hand rested on her abdomen, where her baby was shifting restlessly, aware that something was up.

The fire was contained now, if not out. As soon as they got everyone outside they could start checking the streets around the hall – the unsub must have been out the back of the stage. If there was a back door (and JJ had been in very few public buildings where there hadn't been) then there might be evidence back there. They'd need to cordon off the area at the very least, and move people back from the front of the building too, so Chief Carter and her people could finish making the building safe.

Those people who had been paying attention to Chief Carter's activities gave a cheer, accompanied by much coughing, but they were soon drowned out. Several people screamed as the curtains around each window burst into flames.

It took a few moments for this to sink in, as wrapped up as JJ was with planning their next move, happy that the danger had pretty much passed. She watched, dumbstruck, as the flames swept upwards, moving swiftly, hungrily, towards the roof.

Shouts were coming from the people at the far end, around the doors.

"They're locked!"

"Someone's locked us in!"

"Oh God – they're chained shut!"

Somewhere, distantly, she could hear Hotch and Morgan shouting for calm. All she seemed to be able to do was stand and stare as the fire rushed up, catching on the ceiling. She felt oddly numb, paralysed through fear. Around her, terrified people were beginning to press in, using elbows and shoulders to get closer to the doors; further from the flames. Someone barged into her and she staggered.

All at once, Hotch was right beside her, holding her shoulders. The smoke was getting a lot thicker now, and the fire almost unbearably hot. Frightened like she had never been before, JJ felt her training take over. She straightened up, one hand still protectively over her stomach, and wrapped the scarf more tightly around her mouth and nose.

They were going to get out of this – her and the baby, and her friends, and that was that. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

"Alright everybody, keep back against the doors!" Carter bellowed, striding over from the stage area.

Her hair had fallen out of its customary ponytail, the pink sections rendered all the more vivid by the growing conflagration. With it falling about her face, she looked more like some kind of elemental creature, almost the spirit of the fire.

She pulled out one of the fire blankets she had been using in her demonstration and wrapped it around her arms, strode to the window nearest the door and dragged the fiery curtains to the ground. As she dragged it away, Morgan, who had been on the phone (presumably to the fire department), grabbed one of the uncomfortable metal chairs they had all been sitting on and threw it through the window. The glass shattered, mostly outwards, like a thousand diamonds caught in the firelight.

Hotch ran forward, helping Morgan drag one of the benches to the foot of the window. They were pretty low already, but there were people of all ages in the hall, and not all of them would be able to climb; some would have to be lifted. Several other men rushed to help them, a couple of women running to Carter's side – she was hauling a second bench out of the window so people could climb down the other side.

"Alright," JJ heard herself shout. "Let's keep it orderly – we'll all get out much more quickly."

She helped an elderly lady onto the first bench as the people who had put the benches in place climbed out of the window, ready to help people through. Distantly, JJ could hear the sound of sirens; her heart leapt.

"Everybody who can climb get out on the left!" Hotch shouted, choking and coughing on the smoke.

"JJ!" Morgan cried, and pulled her over. "Get out now! Get people moving outside!"

He practically lifted her over the window jamb and into the waiting arms of one of the locals.

Wordlessly, JJ lowered herself off the bench and pushed her way through the stream of frightened people. "This way!" she yelled, waving her scarf above her head to catch their attention. "Let's get to the parking lot across the street – let the fire crews get in and do their work!"

The evening air was sweet and cool, and she took a deep breath when she was clear of the smoke, coughing at the change in atmosphere. She paused for a moment, on the edge of the street, and looked back at the hall. Like most buildings in the Pine Barrens, it wasn't far from the treeline. The day had been hot and dry, and if the fire – which was making quick work of the walls and roof now – wasn't contained, then it would spread fast and hard.

And Morgan, Hotch and Chief Carter were still in there.

"Jesus," exclaimed a teenage girl, just to JJ's left. "Just look at it!"

JJ looked at her; she was covered in soot, a little red-faced from the fire and obviously very scared. Her long dark hair was falling around all over, like she was a something that had climbed right out of the forest. She couldn't have been much over fourteen – and she seemed to be alone, at least for the moment.

"C'mon," JJ said, taking her arm. "Let's get into the parking lot."

They crossed the street as the fire engines roared into view and JJ wondered if she looked just as fraught as the girl.

"Are you okay?" she asked, when JJ started coughing again. She stared wide-eyed at JJ's bump. "Will the baby be?"

"I will be – just need some water. He'll be fine as long as I am."

"Here." She pressed a bottle of Dr Pepper into JJ's hands. "It's not water, but I guess it'll help."

"Thanks," said JJ, taking a swig. She gave it back as the kid started to cough. "I guess you need it too!"

The girl smiled. "I guess so!"

"What's your name?" JJ asked.

"Faye – Faye Dunphy."

"You're Frank Dunphy's daughter?" JJ exclaimed surprised.

"Yeah…" Faye looked embarrassed.

She looked away as JJ looked around, suddenly quite angry.

 _He got out just before me,_ she thought, scanning the crowd. _If he cares so much about the welfare of his daughter, then where the hell is he?_

0o0

Penelope walked back to her den from the kitchen area where she had spent the last ten minutes making soup and small talk. Her babies were all out on the road, and they wouldn't need her for a while. They certainly wouldn't begrudge her a few moments of coffee and flirting with Kevin, who had just got out of a horrible, four-hour meeting. The office was pretty empty now the evening was wearing on, even given how many people in the department were consummate workaholics.

Like the others, Penelope was feeling restless and eager to head home, but that was unthinkable until she knew her guys didn't need her and were safely checked into their hotel. She'd spent so many all-nighters in her office now that she had her own go-bag stashed in one of the inexplicable filing cabinets the department thought an analytical technician needed. She kept her handbag and a box of emergency rations that her team had kept topped up without her input since she had been shot in another. They seemed to have set themselves up a rota for it, apparently without even talking about it. Currently, it was biscotti and sugared almonds, and Penelope didn't need to be a profiler to know that it was Rossi's turn this week.

She let herself into her den, looked up at the monitors above her computer desk and froze. Each and every one of them, tuned to different New Jersey local news stations in case something happened that the team needed to know, was displaying footage of a meeting hall on fire; the scrolling banner beneath it spelling out her worst nightmare in bright red letters.

There was no doubt about it, it was the hall in County Lakes where Hotch, Morgan and JJ were attending a general meeting – her heart gave a painful and unpleasant lurch. It was very much on fire – so much so that the industrious fire crews who were trying to put it out were already in danger of losing the roof.

Letting out a strangled cry, she threw herself across the room and hit the quick dial button on her phone, jamming the headset on her head.

"Please pick up! Please pick up! Please pick up!" she muttered as it rang, willing everybody to be okay. "C'mon! C'mon!"

Just as she was about to give up and call JJ, Morgan answered.

" _Hey Babygirl."_ He coughed. _"What's up?"_

"What's up?" she demanded. "The building I knew you guys were heading to is on fire on the national news! That's what's up!"

" _Oh yeah, that,"_ he said, and coughed again. _"We're okay."_

Behind him, Penelope could hear sirens and shouts; people running. Morgan sounded fairly calm though, apart from the coughing.

"Why are you coughing?" she asked. "Were you in there?"

" _Yeah, but we're all out safely now."_

" _All?_ "

 _JJ!_ she thought, panicking a little. Almost without her permission, her fingers started searching for the effects of smoke inhalation on unborn babies and pregnant women.

" _Penelope,"_ said Derek, sounding stern. " _We are_ all _okay, okay?"_

"But-"

" _Me, Hotch, JJ and Chief Carter were in there, along with about half of the Pine Barrens, but no one's hurt badly,"_ he assured her. _"JJ's gettin' checked out by a paramedic –_ just as a precaution _."_ His voice rose as she began to sputter objections. " _She's fine, the baby's fine. Garcia, I need you focussed._ "

She glared at the phone. "You nearly died in a fire and you want me focussed?" she snapped, though she was already calming down a little. "Derek –"

" _Penelope,"_ he responded. _"There are a lot of people here who need talkin' to and calmin' down, and we got a neighbourhood watch leader who is usin' this as a press opportunity. If we don't cool this all down, the entire region is gonna panic. We need backup, okay?"_

"Right," she said, taking a deep breath. "I'll call the others."

" _You know I love you, Babygirl."_

"Back at you, Derek. You just keep everybody away from that fire."

She glanced up at the screens as he hung up. Sure enough, a man in a plaid shirt with an earnest expression was talking animatedly to a cameraman, just behind the cordon. The fire behind him filled the screen, making him seem larger than life.

On another screen, a hysterical woman and a small, inoffensive looking man were haranguing another journalist.

Still dialling, she turned up the volume.

"… _something's gotta be done about this. Our families just aren't safe. I have a teenager, Faye, and she was with me tonight. When I think about what could have happened to her… well, I just feel sick. I lost my wife, you see, when she was just a child, and I promised her I would protect her. Tonight, I felt helpless – thanks to the actions of one, crazed individual. What happened tonight was a lucky miss in many ways – we all got out okay, thanks to the quick actions of the community, but someone locked us in."_ He ran a hand through his sooty hair. _"I call that a deliberate act – someone was trying to murder half the people in the Pine Barrens. If I hadn't had the foresight to break that window…"_

Penelope grunted and muted him, simultaneously giving up on Reid's phone and trying Pearce's. She turned the volume up on the other news channel.

"… _as a mother, I just can't sleep at night knowing that my kids could be next!"_ The woman swept her blonde, soot streaked hair back, dramatically, in a sort of exaggerated imitation of her friend. _"There are dangerous individuals in this town, and they have to be made an example of!"_

" _Yes!"_ the man next to her burst out, almost vibrating with anger. _"The criminal element!"_

" _Hey Garcia,"_ said Rossi, so she turned the sound off.

Finally, someone's cell was on. When they got back she was definitely going to have to talk to Hotch about what would happen the next time one of her team turned off their cell phone on a case.

"There's been another fire," she said, without preamble. The news reports had knocked her off-kilter, somewhat; there was nothing funny about her besties being in the middle of an unsub-made inferno. "At the meeting hall in County Lakes. Everybody's okay, but they need you there."

There was a brief interlude where Garcia heard Rossi relate their change of destination to Prentiss and the other agent made horrified noises. She visualised their SUV completing a u-turn at some speed and smiled to herself.

Even if they insisted on always being in the middle of any danger, at least she could count on them to go running to one another's aid.

" _Have you got in touch with Reid and Pearce?"_

"I think they're out of cell range," she told Rossi, redialling. "I'll try them again. FIY there's a guy on the news telling people how he's a big hero and Something Must Be Done," she added, glaring up at the monitor. His hysterical friends were less of a problem right now, but Garcia got the impression that Frank Dunphy was the kind of guy people listened to.

Rossi made a strangled noise of discontent. _"Got it. We're on our way."_

0o0

"Roads can't just disappear!" Spencer complained, for about the fifth time in an hour.

Grace murmured her assent. He was right, roads couldn't disappear, just as trees couldn't get up and rearrange themselves, but even though she and Spencer had been driving up and down what should have been the same stretch of forest road as the light steadily disappeared, that was exactly what they seemed to have done.

None of the woods or ponds looked even vaguely familiar, though they hadn't taken any turn-offs or detours. By rights, they should have passed all this about seven times – but they hadn't. It felt like they were trapped inside the first chapter of a Stephen King novel.

It was enough to make her wonder whether Ash's hunch about Rosemary Purdy hadn't been a little conservative. It took a lot more than an affinity with tarot and palmistry to pull off something like this.

Assuming it was her at all.

"How are the mobiles looking?" she asked, after a while.

Spencer was holding both of them now, on top of the useless road map. "No signal," he declared, the scowl on his face perfectly audible in his tone. "On either one." He huffed. "What the hell is going on?"

He was, understandably, annoyed and more than a little frightened now – though an hour or so of driving around had dulled the edge of the fear, leaving more irritation in its wake. She knew how he felt.

"I've had just about enough of this," Grace grumbled, as they passed another little pond full of waterlilies. "I'm going to turn around again. We can come back tomorrow with Garcia directing us."

No sooner had the words left her mouth, something started flashing on the dashboard. The check engine light.

"Oh great, now what?" Spencer asked; Grace swore.

"I guess I'd better pull over and find out."

She sighed. This 'quick interview' was turning out to be a right pain in the arse.

"Hey, is that a layby up ahead?" Spencer asked, suddenly. "Up there, on the right."

Grace squinted into the darkness, just beyond the beams of their headlights.

"Yes…"

"There hasn't been one before," he added, flatly.

"No there hasn't."

They shared a speaking look.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"We've gotta check it out," he said, reluctantly.

"Not that this feels like a trap at _all_ ," she remarked, under her breath.

She turned the car into the layby and was about to turn the engine off when it sputtered out of its own accord.

"No, no, no, no, no," Grace urged the SUV, "come on, don't do this!"

Without warning, all the electrics in the car turned off at once, leaving them in pitch darkness.

"I'll take a look at the engine," she said, annoyed, and was about to open the door to do just that when Spencer's hand landed on her arm.

The urgency of the action stilled her, and before she could ask him what was going on she heard a scratching, dragging sort of sound in the woods outside her side of the car. Grace's head snapped around, but her eyes still hadn't caught up with the lack of dashboard lights; it was too dark to make anything out…

There it was again, over the quick, startled breaths the two agents were taking. Something moving, out in the trees.

Spencer's hand tightened around her wrist. Not painfully so, just enough to tell her he was really scared. "Um, d-do you hear that?"


	15. Devils

**Essential listening: Separated Out, by Marillion**

 **0o0**

Emily glared at the board in the fire department that Spencer had been so assiduously mapping the fires on. She'd added the most recent fire, at the meeting hall, where they had very nearly lost three team members and a local Chief Arson Investigator.

 _But they're all okay,_ she reminded herself.

They'd almost unanimously agreed that JJ ought to head back to the hotel to recover. JJ herself had been the only dissenter, though Emily suspected it had only been a token protest. Rossi had driven her, and from the look of things she had been asleep before they'd even left the parking lot.

Hotch and Morgan had soot everywhere and the odd bruise, but the paramedics had checked them and JJ (twice), and assured them that the extent of their smoke inhalation was a cough and a sore throat. Chief Carter, who had been even worse at receiving medical treatment than Grace, had scratches from the stage curtain and a singed arm from pulling down the flaming curtains.

Really, they had been very lucky.

They'd all be fine after a sleep and a shower.

But they shouldn't have been. So far, this unsub had shown no desire to purposefully hurt anyone, and the leap from accidentally killing two elderly care home residents and burning the regulars at a bar to locking a hundred and fifty people in a meeting hall to burn to death was big.

She frowned at herself. Too big.

"Something is off with this profile," she said aloud.

"What're you seeing?" Carter asked.

Emily turned, surprised. She had thought she was alone, but Carter had obviously been sitting at the table behind her for some minutes. She was stirring her coffee thoughtfully, watching Emily's expression.

"I don't know," she said unhappily. "It just feels wrong."

"Well, if we're talkin' about Rosemary Purdy and Missy Carpenter, then I guess it needs to be expanded, some. I was talkin' to Grace this mornin'," said Carter, carefully putting down her spoon. "What y'all said in the profile – somethin' about it didn't sit right."

"How'd you mean?" Emily asked, taking a seat across from her.

"Rage. Now, I've read your department's literature on arsonists, and that all makes sense – like that guy in 'Frisco a couple years back."

Emily nodded soberly. She remembered him very well.

"Settin' people on fire in the street – that's rage. Settin' a small fire exactly calculated to burn down a tool shed or a pool table…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't know. There's anger there, but no desire to harm."

"Until tonight," Emily reminded her.

"Yeah, until tonight." Carter nodded slowly. "Before this, it felt more like vandalism than anything else – like torchin' an abandoned car, or spray paintin' a massive dick on a billboard."

Emily snorted.

"It just – it doesn't feel like they're tryin' to use fire as a weapon – more like fire as a – I don't know…"

"A cry for help, maybe?" Emily finished.

Chief Carter nodded. "Or for attention."

"We'll work it into the profile," said Hotch.

Emily jumped and turned to discover both Hotch and Morgan behind her. She hadn't even heard them coming. To her surprise, he yawned.

"In the morning," he added. He looked exhausted. "Time to call it a day."

"Pearce and Reid not back yet?" Morgan asked, looking around with raised eyebrows.

"I thought they were with you," Emily admitted, suddenly concerned.

"We thought they were helping here," Morgan told her.

With all the chaos of the aftermath of the fire, their absence had evidently gone unnoticed. Now though, in the just-past-midnight calm, it was obvious.

Suddenly everyone was a good deal less sleepy.

"Call Pearce," Hotch instructed, already dialling Reid's number.

Morgan got out his phone; Emily shared a worried look with Chief Carter.

"Straight to voicemail," said Morgan.

"Same here," Hotch added. He looked at the chief. "Are the Pine Barrens a low signal area?"

"Some parts." She nodded. "Pockets – but not the area Rosemary Purdy lives in."

"Garcia," said Morgan, who had immediately called their personal goddess of technology when Pearce's phone had refused to connect. "We need a last known GPS on Reid and Pearce, stat. Yeah, I know – Penelope, just do it, they're not back yet."

"Chief, Pearce says you're a good judge of character. You know Rosemary Purdy," Hotch said, deadly serious now. "Do you think she would hurt anyone?"

"Never," said Chief Carter. "It's not in her – a gentler creature you couldn't meet. And I'm not just sayin' that."

"Guys, their phones last pinged in the heart of the Pine Barrens," Morgan interrupted. "The cell company said they should have signal –"

"Then it shouldn't go to voicemail," Emily said, surprised.

"– they told her it has to be some kind of glitch."

Hotch was still frowning at Chief Carter.

"Search and Rescue?" he asked.

"We could," said Carter. "But it's basically us, and if the arsonist sees us movin' out –"

"Then they might take the opportunity to set another fire," Hotch finished, nodding soberly.

They were stuck between a rock and a hard place on this one.

Carter put her cup down. "Look, I know my girl. If it's a glitch they're probably just lost. They're both grown-ups – and FBI agents – and I can tell you now if Grace wanted to get in touch with us, she woulda found a way."

"If there was a fire in the woods, would you know about it?" Hotch asked, voicing Emily's main fear.

"Right away," Carter told him. "There are temperature gauge stations throughout the woods. If there was a fire it would spread, and if it spread it would hit a station. We'd know."

There was a pause.

"Don't get me wrong, boss, Reid can take care of himself," said Morgan carefully. "But the amount of times –"

"I know," said Hotch, cutting him off.

Emily met Morgan's worried gaze. She too was mentally cataloguing all the times Reid had been abducted, blown up, taken hostage, or generally found himself in trouble. He was a magnet for it. Grace, on the other hand, seemed to find herself outside any trouble, when it happened.

 _But not necessarily in London_ , she thought, recalling the way Kate Joyner had treated her in New York.

"We'll try them again first thing," said Hotch, coming to a decision. "There's nothing in this case to suggest they'd be in the kind of trouble that wouldn't trip a fire sensor. They've probably just got a flat."

"Yeah," said Morgan, after a moment, in a voice that sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "They're probably headin' back right now."

Emily pulled a face, but Hotch was right. The Pine Barrens were vast, and there was no way they'd find them in the dark. Logic said that they were probably fine…

 _Doesn't mean any of us are going to rest easy tonight_ , she thought.

"Let's get some sleep," said Hotch, in his 'I-have-decided' voice. "Come at it fresh in the morning."

Still uncomfortable, but resigned to his decision, they got to their feet. Chief Carter followed suit, looking more tired than anxious. She met Hotch's eyes for a moment.

"Don't worry, our girl is easily the scariest thing out there in those woods right now."

0o0

One by one, all the hairs on the back of Grace's neck stood up.

The agent gazed out into the dark, not-quite-silent night, one hand on the gun at her hip, one still holding her phone. She'd turned the light on it way down, so it didn't take away her night vision – all she needed to see was the bar at the top where it showed the signal connectivity.

She had walked along the road a way, leaving Reid in the SUV, trying to get a signal, or see a turning, or a light. At least, that's what she had told him. He really hadn't wanted her to go at all, but she'd needed to see if there was any obvious magic she could shut down, or trace back to whoever had decided to trap two federal agents in the woods.

A close look at the engine, once they had convinced themselves that what they had heard was some kind of deer, had further confused the issue. There was clearly nothing wrong with it – nothing mechanical, at least. They had checked the fuel tank, the oil, the water in the radiator – everything. Guessing that it had to be something electrical, they had even dug out the fuse box and Grace had changed the fuse for the spare in the glove box, hanging over the side of the engine with Spencer holding his phone steady for light. Nothing.

It was as if the car had just decided that it would go no further, and that was it.

Neither of them had particularly relished the idea of having to sleep in the car in the middle of the woods, so Grace had decided to make one last attempt at a rescue call before resigning herself. She had walked about five hundred yards up the road, where there was a slight rise in the land, but the bars on her phone had stayed stubbornly at zero. She had just been considering going a little further on when something – deep in the coal dark woods – something had screamed.

Some _thing_ , because nothing human had ever made a noise quite like that.

Slowly, she pushed her phone into her pocket and took out her gun, listening to the unquiet night. Somewhere nearby, feet were moving through the undergrowth; whatever it was, it was closer than the scream had been, moving quickly, then stopping.

In her mind's eye, Grace saw a medium-sized woodland creature pause and sniff the air, recoiling from the scent of human.

If she had been in Britain, she would have guessed at a badger, but here…

Unable to shake the absolute conviction that she was being watched, she turned slowly on the spot. Beyond the first row of trees the darkness was utterly impenetrable and though she couldn't see anyone, she had the unnerving sensation that eyes were staring out at her from every leaf and branch.

Several minutes of waiting produced no more screeches, but plenty of rustling. Clearly, the locals were unconcerned with the screaming thing and were carrying on their nightly activities with nonchalance; she resolved to do the same.

Even so, it took a lot to turn her back on the woods and head back to the car, keeping her pace slow and even so that she could still hear any untoward movements, convincing herself that she was not so very afraid.

A series of loud crashes on the other side of the road made her freeze for a moment, but it was only a pair of stags, surprised to find a human out on the road so late at night. In the deep gloom that had so swiftly fallen over the Pine Barrens they looked like deeper shadows imposed on the inky blackness, like the darkness itself had taken on a form. They stared at her for a moment, with lamp-like eyes, before nimbly disappearing back into the trees.

Her heart thudding, she made it back to the car, where Spencer's worried face emerged from the darkness, illuminated by the screen of his phone.

"Anything?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No."

"Great."

"Car magically come back to life while I was gone?"

"No, sadly."

Grace nodded, looking out into the black.

"D'you think they'll send someone out after us?" Spencer asked, in an overly cheerful voice that did nothing to conceal his anxiety.

"I hope so," she replied. "What time is it?"

"Ten minutes to midnight," he said at once.

Grace guessed he must have been checking the time and signal every thirty seconds while she was out of the car.

"Probably not until the morning, then."

"So we're stuck here," he said, tiredly.

"Looks like." She nodded, though she knew he couldn't see it. "Well, better make the best of it, I suppose. Help me get these seats down."

They worked in slightly taut silence for several minutes until they had made the seats into a reasonably comfortable sleeping platform, which was easier said than done when you're doing it entirely by the light of a mobile phone. Grace pulled her bag out of the foot well and offered Reid a peppermint.

"All I've got, I'm afraid," she said.

"Thanks."

"God I wish I had a cup of tea right now."

He chuckled, which pleased her. At least if he was chuckling he wasn't freaking out – and if he didn't freak out, she wouldn't either.

"I've got some water," said Spencer, after a few moments of silence. "But we should probably save it –" His voice faltered as somewhere out in the darkness, distant but powerful, they heard another scream.

Grace heard him swallow.

"It's incredible," she observed, in a much stronger voice than she had expected, "how many nocturnal woodland creatures make sounds we imagine a demon would make."

Spencer coughed; the rustle of fabric and a slight rocking motion in the car told her he had shifted position. She thought that maybe he had moved closer, because his breathing was a little louder, but that could have been fear.

"Y-you know, this area has its own legend about – about noises like that."

"Yeah?" Grace asked, trying not to listen too hard to the rustlings outside the SUV.

Talking was good. Talking meant friendlier sounds than the distant calls of whatever the hell had screamed.

"Uh, yeah…" Spencer told her. "It's called the New Jersey Devil. The native tribe who lived here before the settlers came called this area Popuessing, or – uh – 'the place of the dragon'."

Grace laughed, though her laugh didn't sound quite right, even to her. Most myths had a grain of truth to them, after all – and some of them she had seen first-hand. She wished he had thought of a different subject.

"Don't tell me there's a dragon out there, or I'll have to go look," she warned him, but Spencer didn't seem to find it all that funny.

"You wouldn't want to meet this one," he said darkly. "Hardly anyone describes it like a dragon – it's more… It's as tall as a tree, screams like a demon and its wings are supposed to be several metres wide." He paused. "Uh, it sounds totally ridiculous. It's part-goat and part-bat, with clawed hands and glowing eyes."

This time, Grace laughed properly; even Spencer chuckled.

"What was it when they made that one up? Pull a creature out of the hat day?"

"Tch-yeah," he said. "I told you it sounded ridiculous."

She found his hand in the darkness and patted it. "Most monsters do. So, what does this terrifying goat-bat do?"

"Eat chickens, mostly," he admitted. "It – uh – probably came from a sixteenth century smear campaign against a man called Daniel Leeds. It started out as a print war between two rival almanac publishers," he explained, pausing every now and then to listen to the forest noises outside the SUV. "Leeds was supposed to have 'pagan' tendencies –"

Grace snorted.

"Yeah. He – uh – didn't go to church, or worship the same way –"

"Ah, religious community code for 'witch' yes, I'm with you."

"Anyway, the rival almanac company started a series of rumours about his family's heritage – namely that one of his ancestors, Mother Leeds, had consorted with the devil."

"Let me guess," said Grace, filling in the blanks in her mind. "This unholy union produced a child –"

"Um, a thirteenth child."

"Oh, even better!" she exclaimed, warming to their theme. "And this thirteenth child was 'misshapen' in some way?"

"Excessively hairy, with cloven feet," Spencer agreed, and there was the faint hint of a smile about his voice now.

"Lovely. And the local preacher came to collect the child to baptise him?"

"Yeah – and the child sprouted wings and leapt up the chimney, shrieking."

"Sounds about right." Grace shook her head, though he couldn't see her. "Standard disparage the aged widow story. If she existed, she probably had a child that died and people didn't like her, so they made up some crap about it as an excuse to steal her stuff."

"People suck."

"They do."

They were silent for a minute, a little less frightened and a little more comfortable with the woods. Right now, people being horrible was a lot easier to cope with than mysterious screaming bat-goats.

"So, did it work?" Grace asked, eventually.

"I'm sorry, what?" He sounded like she had caught him in the middle of a train of thought.

"The rival almanac company."

"Oh, I don't actually know," he said, sounding quite annoyed with himself for it. "Though the Leeds family did stick around – and they have three dragon-like creatures on their family crest."

 _Interesting._

"Here be dragons," Grace mused. "So, they either had a sense of humour, or it's not for nothing the Lenape named this place for a great, scaly winged thing."

There was a moment of silence as Spencer digested this perspective.

"Have – have you ever seen a dragon?" he asked, sounding as if he felt very stupid asking.

"No," said Grace. "I don't know that they even exist."

"Oh," said Spencer, and Grace couldn't tell if he was more relieved or disappointed. "I was just thinking – in case you'd met something like the New Jersey Devil before… But I guess that kind of thing doesn't exist."

They both froze when whatever it was shrieked again, as if it had heard him. It might have been Grace's imagination, but it seemed like it was a good deal closer than it had been before.

She hugged her knees, feeling abruptly vulnerable.

"Nope," she assured him, when she found her voice again. It sounded over-loud, like she was trying too hard. "I dealt with entirely human monsters."

"That's – that's good." He swallowed, speaking much more quietly than before. "Same as the BAU really, but with more… I – uh… You know, there were no recorded sightings of the – of the New Jersey Devil before 1909?" he asked, obviously casting around for something – anything – to say.

Grace wished he hadn't got stuck on this.

"No?" Grace asked, politely.

Most of her attention was being drawn by two points of light further down the road. She could just make them out, out of the front windscreen. They seemed to be hanging in the air, about forty metres ahead, where she had met the deer, like two small lamps. Although the darkness was obscuring their proper size or height, making everything seem bigger than it really ought to be, she fancied they were pretty high up. Too high for a deer, certainly – or even a human.

 _As tall as a tree…_

"No – uh – there was a spate of sightings, and the local papers picked them up, and then – well, it just kind of snowballed," Spencer continued nervously. "Then a businessman in Philadelphia built a pair of wings that he glued to the back of a kangaroo and told everyone he'd caught it."

"That poor creature," Grace commented, her gaze fixed on the things that definitely weren't eyes.

It seemed unnaturally quiet all of a sudden, as though the night-time wildlife of the Pine Barrens knew something they didn't.

"Yeah… He made a lot of money out of that kangaroo until he was found out," he gave an anxious sort of laugh. "It's funny really, it existed in folklore for centuries before people got really hysterical about it."

"Funny…"

She frowned. The lights had vanished with such suddenness that she wondered if she had imagined them. Outside the SUV, something cracked – like the sound of someone standing on a stick.

"Makes you wonder if it wasn't… r-real – you know?" he carried on doggedly, his voice still keeping that edge of fear. "Like, maybe the local tribe knew something, and the settlers didn't want to talk about it, not properly, so they made up a story about it and –"

This time the scream was right outside, making them both fairly jump out of their skin. It was bloodcurdling and very, very close. Grace turned in time to see a faint fog forming on the glass of the window, as if something large had let out a great sigh. She had the impression of bigness, though she couldn't see a thing through the misted windscreen. There was the sound of something large and leathery trailing on the floor, then a creak, like that leather had suddenly been extended.

The SUV rocked slightly, in response to something large moving away, into the night – but not into the woods – they were silent.

"Spencer?" she whispered urgently, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Y-yeah?" He sounded as frightened as she felt.

"Shut up."


	16. Butterflies

**Essential listening: Sweater Weather, by The Neighbourhood**

0o0

Breathe.

That was the key.

If you could regulate your breathing, you could control your fear.

Grace focused on the feel of the car seats beneath her body, her eyes closed, but not screwed shut, her palms flat against the upholstery.

Breathe in; breathe out.

If you could control your breathing, you could almost convince yourself that there was no noise outside, that the intermittent screams (definitely some kind of animal call, but what kind of animal? That was the question) outside the car were not circling them, that they weren't something large or toothy, with enormous wings. There definitely weren't more than one of them.

It was a technique she'd learned from her yoga practice. It was very useful for calming down – assuming you could maintain your focus. That, of course, was a lot easier when the person next to you wasn't turning their phone on and off every three seconds.

It hadn't bothered her at first, but after about an hour of seeing the white of Reid's phone flash on and off through her eyelids it was beginning to give her one hell of a headache.

Resisting the urge to grab it and throw it out of the window, she opened her eyes. "Do you think you could _not_ do that, just for a bit?" she asked, through gritted teeth.

"I – uh – I want to know the time," he said, but Grace wasn't sure she believed him.

"Well, fair enough, but you surely don't need to check it every two minutes," she snapped, immediately regretting her tone.

"Sorry," Spencer muttered, and turned the phone off.

"No, it's alright," Grace assured him, feeling a bit of a heel for snapping at him. She found his hand in the darkness and he flinched. "The light coming on and off was just giving me a headache, that's all."

"Sorry," he said again, and interlaced his fingers with hers. "I just –" He swallowed. "Do – d'you think the light is – is attracting it?"

There was no use pretending there wasn't something out there anymore.

"No," she said, after a moment's thought. "It seemed pretty interested in us when your phone was off, and its behaviour hasn't changed now it's off."

"Oh. Okay."

They fell into a tense sort of silence, both listening to the noises on the wind.

Forest quiet isn't the same thing as silence, particularly at night: there are a million and one sounds, from the rustling of forest creatures to the susurration of the wind through the leaves. In the pitch dark of a moonless night, the imagination can take these sounds and run wild. A deer moving in the distance can become the footsteps of a monster, creeping up behind you. A bird of prey dropping on an unassuming leveret can transform in your mind's eye into the thump of an axe.

High in the canopy above them, branches creaked and swayed, adding their voices to the chorus. In different circumstances, it might have lulled her to sleep. Combined with the intermittent shrieks of something that most people didn't believe in, it didn't make for the most peaceful of environments.

If they had been in a house, with strong walls and windows that could be covered with shutters or curtains, Grace would have loved every second of it, but out here, in the car, she felt very exposed. She shivered. It wasn't particularly warm, either.

Something scuttled past the car, snuffling at the tyres; since they were still holding hands, she felt it when Spencer jumped.

"It's just a fox or something," she told him, giving his hand a squeeze.

"Yeah – um – a fox…" He swallowed again. She heard his other hand go back to his mobile. "I'm – uh – just going to check the – uh –"

Grace grimaced as the harsh, white light snapped on again. Screwing up her eyes against it, she turned to look at her friend. Her expression softened; Spencer looked petrified.

"Hey," she said softly, "it's going to be okay."

Spencer turned wide, frightened eyes on her. "Y-yeah?"

"Yeah," she told him firmly. "It's not attacking us – it's probably just curious. We're unexpected."

"If it – uh – if it did… could you – stop it?" he asked, hitches in his breath.

The phone light went off and he hurried to flick it back on.

"I don't know," she answered, honestly. "I don't want to find out without some form of cover to retreat to."

He nodded, frowning deeply, and then took a sharp intake of breath. "No, no, no, don't do this!"

"What is it?" Grace asked, alarmed.

"The battery – it's –" He huffed in frustration as his phone died, plunging them back into darkness. "Great," he said. "That's just –" Something out in the woods cracked and he flinched again. "Would you turn yours on," he asked, his voice almost pleading. "Just for a little bit?"

"No," she said, at once. "If we can find a pocket of signal tomorrow morning we'll get out of here so much quicker."

"Yeah, no – I mean, yeah, you're totally – totally right."

She heard him shove his phone back in his pocket. Grace frowned, listening intently: his breathing was still pretty ragged and she could feel him shifting restlessly. Although it was pitch black, she glanced instinctively out of the window. The winged, screaming thing hadn't made any noises now for a good five minutes, and the woods around them appeared to be settling down for the night. Perhaps it had lost interest, or gone off to terrorise someone's chickens.

Either way, she and Spencer had faced far worse than this – both together and separately. They were both armed, and he knew very well that she had a few extra tricks up her sleeves, as it were. He really shouldn't be this scared.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He answered far too quickly. "Fine."

"Huh," she said, "because you don't sound fine."

"It's nothing," he said dismissively.

"What's nothing?"

"Nothing's nothing – j-just drop it, okay?"

Grace snorted. "Doesn't feel like nothing – you're shaking like a leaf."

"I am not –"

Grace held his hand up, still clasped in hers, where it was pretty obvious to both of them that he was trembling.

Spencer huffed again. "I'm – I'm scared of the dark, okay?" he stammered. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Grace felt herself smile, glad that he couldn't see her expression. So that was it.

"I know I'm too old to still be afraid of it, but –"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Grace assured him. "It's one of the fears that's hard-wired into us."

"That's not what Morgan says," Reid told her, sounding frustrated.

Grace chuckled. "That's because he thinks he's your big brother and he likes winding you up," she pointed out.

She heard his head move, which presumably meant he was nodding.

"What are – what are you afraid of?" he asked.

Grace paused for a moment, thinking. "The things that might be in the dark."

"Like the New Jersey Devil?"

"Among other things," she agreed.

Out in the dark woods, the something screamed again. It was definitely further away this time, and Grace finally felt able to relax a little. Spencer, on the other hand, tensed and stayed tense. Her hand went instinctively to her phone, wanting to alleviate some of his fear, but they really should conserve the batteries. That was the problem with depending too much on electricity, she mused. Back in the old days, she'd always had a torch on her; now she was used to relying on her phone. That was a bit of kit that would have to go back into her go-bag, she decided. It was always good to have an independent light source.

The guv' (who would always be her guv', no matter how deeply she trusted Aaron Hotchner) had had a tinder box in one of the many pockets of his greatcoat. But then he had always been pretty old school. You tended to be, if you were involved with magic.

She smiled, suddenly, and pulled her hand out of Spencer's grasp. It took a moment, since he seemed reluctant to let go.

Closing her eyes, she rubbed her palms together, focussing – as they stilled into a prayer position – on the space between them. She brought her hands to her lips and blew a stream of warm air into the gap between her hands. Feeling the first stirrings of magic forming, she opened her eyes in time to see a soft, blue glow spill out from between her fingers.

"What…?" Spencer breathed, staring at her hands.

Quietly, Grace opened her palms, letting a whole flight of butterflies flutter out and colonise the roof of the car above them. Each one was a bright cyan or sky blue, with a dark outline around the edge of each wing, looking strangely delicate as they stretched and flapped their wings, and each one was giving out a pale blue light. Not cold, like a synthetic light would be, but warm. Cosy.

Grace rested her head back against the bag she was using as a pillow and smiled slightly. It had been a while since she'd felt compelled to cast that particular spell, though it had always been one of her favourites – at one time she had done it as naturally and as often as bursting into song – and it felt good to see them again.

Beside her, Spencer had gone completely still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Feel better?" she asked, after a few moments.

There was a short silence, where Spencer appeared to be considering his answer carefully. "Well, I'm not afraid of the dark anymore," he said slowly. "But my grasp of the laws of physics is slipping."

Grace laughed, a little nervously. Although she had fooled around with magic in front of Spencer before, it had all been low-level stuff, like making doors shut, or lighting candles. Full-blown creation – because these butterflies were tangible, rather than an illusion – was quite a different ballgame. She was a little concerned she might have scared him off this time.

"Magic exists within our current system of physics," Grace told him. "It has to, since they're both describing the manipulation of the same sort of thing – it's just coming at it from a different direction."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod slowly. "That's the impression I got from the books I read." He licked his lips. "I mean… I've been doing a bit of research since – since you showed me that ghost."

"Yes," Grace acknowledged. "I saw them on your bookshelf."

Spencer tore his eyes from the butterflies. She could feel him looking at her, though she didn't turn to look.

"I – uh – I didn't want you to feel like I was intruding," he said. "It's your world."

Grace chuckled. "It's one we both live in," she told him. "It's just I see a different bit of it – like you and mathematics."

"I guess. Though I'm pretty sure more people can 'see' math than magic."

She looked at him then; he seemed calmer, more earnest than anxious. "More than you think," she told him. "It's always more than you think. Magic is…" She sighed. "Complicated and vast and simple and small, all at the same time. That's one of the reasons I try to give you the abridged version. A lot of this is theoretical, like –" she thought for a moment. "It's like science in the age of enlightenment. Part guesswork, part luck – and going along with a theory that looks about right until it gets proved wrong.

"Plus, even if quite a lot of witches and wizards are working on this stuff, very few get published. Self-publishing has helped a bit, but a lot of us are pretty secretive." She shrugged. "It's safer that way."

"Safer?"

She smiled at him again, ruefully this time. "In Britain, the police know about us, and I presume some of the lower levels of government must, because of the organisation and pay structure, but I'm pretty sure no one higher up does. I don't know about the US, and I've only come across a handful of people like me over here, even in two years – but generally governments have a habit of studying a thing to death. Besides, I can't imagine us being universally welcomed into society. I've read too much history."

"Salem," Spencer guessed, following the direction of her thoughts.

"Salem, the purges, Matthew Hopkins' grubby little money-spinner – selling witches to town councils while he raped and tortured as many women as he pleased." She shook her head, smiling sadly. "Don't get me started on that though. People always fear the unknown or the uncanny."

She frowned, thinking of the expression that crossed Hotch's face sometimes when he glanced sidelong at her, wondering if she was a danger to their team.

"Not everyone," said Spencer, in that kind, quiet way he had sometimes. He took her hand.

Grace met his gentle, earnest eyes and felt a familiar tug at her stomach that meant she was failing miserably at the keep-it-platonic thing.

"No, not everyone," she agreed.

She shuffled across the folded down seats until she could rest her head on his shoulder and felt him shift nearer in response. Softly, he pressed his cheek against her hair. Sometimes, she reflected, as they both gazed up at the peaceful butterflies, it wasn't worth pretending.

"How do they…" Spencer reached out to one of the fragile, fluttery things. He seemed surprised when one left the roof and landed decorously on his finger, delicately cleaning its proboscis. "I didn't think I'd be able to touch them."

"It's a creation spell, rather than an illusion," Grace told him. "So they're tangible, in that you can touch them, but they're not real, in that they have no normal life cycle."

"So they don't die?" he asked, peering closely at the one on his finger.

"No… technically they're not alive. They'll probably fade while I'm sleeping. They're an aspect of me, derived from my energy."

"How?"

Grace smiled, amused at his unquenchable thirst for knowledge.

"I'm not really the best person to ask," she admitted. "I'm not that up on the theory side, so you'll have to forgive me, but basically you… you sort of take something from inside yourself and give it form."

"Uh…"

"Yeah, I know, that's a really crap explanation."

"No incantation, or… I don't know… what is it you always say? Dribbly candles?"

Grace laughed. "No. It's more like… It's more like singing. You decide you're going to sing and somehow the song comes out. Sometimes you're off-key or you forget the words, but you use your voice to shape the sounds." She winced, aware that this wasn't a particularly scientific analogy either. "I didn't learn the classical stuff, I just picked most of it up through experience."

He seemed to accept it though.

"They're a part of you," he mused.

"Mm-hmm. It's one of the first things you learn – kind of like a party trick. Everyone does something different, like bees, or hummingbirds. I always liked butterflies."

"I guess that's why they're the same colour as your eyes."

Grace frowned. "Are they?"

"Yeah – all the different shades of blue, with a dark edge around them – like your irises," said Spencer.

"You're right," she said, pleasantly surprised. "You know, I'd never thought about them like that before."

She made herself more comfortable against his side, glad that she wasn't in the car alone and that Spencer was both warm and not opposed to sharing body heat.

"What's the 'classical stuff'?" he asked, shifting the coat he was using as a blanket so that it covered them both.

"Okay," said Grace, ordering her thoughts. "You'll probably have picked up from the books that there's a bit of variety in terms of magical practice."

"Tch-yeah, somewhat," he chuckled.

"There's as many different kinds of magic as there are people who use it, and different traditions work in different ways," Grace explained. "And I'm simplifying wildly, here, they basically boil down into a few main types. First, you have people with psychic abilities, who can see or hear spirits and such."

"Like you."

"Yes – well, sort of. Everyone sees them differently, pretty much, and I'm a bit of a weird one, even for people with magic."

"Oh," said Spencer, and she could hear the frown in his voice. "I – okay."

"Then you've got people who don't have magic, but know about it and have picked up the odd artefact that has unusual properties or a book of incantations that work without internal impetus."

"So… I could do magic?" he asked, definitely interested now.

"Yes, to an extent."

"Yes!" he hissed, and Grace burst out laughing.

The butterfly, startled by the sudden noise, returned to its fellows on the ceiling.

"It's more like being able to take advantage of it, but I'll let you have that," she chortled. "Then you have a couple of different classes of magic – higher, organised, scientific and instinctive. Higher is like the magic in Harry Potter. If you have the talent, you can learn codified spells, incantations, charms, curses, that sort of stuff. It's a quick way of accumulating a lot of basic spells, but it takes a lot of hard study to understand and use the majority of it. People who prefer higher magic tend towards wands and libraries full of spell books. They tend to have a vast array of spells, but are a bit inflexible in the way they approach magic.

"Then you have organised, which is partially codified, in terms of how spells are cast," she continued. "That's more like the magic in Earthsea."

"So, mostly learning how to control your own magic without incantation, but you need to be specific about naming the thing you're casting on?" Spencer asked.

"You _have_ been doing research," Grace congratulated. She felt him preen a little beside her. "Yes, but there's no endless lists of true names, or anything. You can do a lot more in organised magic if you have something belonging to a person, or if you combine the freedom of this branch of magic with some of the spellwork of higher magic. A lot of organised magic practitioners are very powerful.

"Scientific magic is exactly what it sounds like," she went on. "People who work with this kind of magic can be divided into two groups. The first try to push the boundaries of magic using experimentation, while the second take techniques from all the other branches and try to apply physics to them – you'd really get on with this kind of magic, I feel."

Spencer smiled, resting his head against hers again. "Totally."

"They do a lot of innovation, in terms of combining spells and stuff. I like that there's an evidence-based approach, rather than being told to do things because it's how they've always been done."

"And _that's_ what you are?"

"Yes and no," she smiled. "I'm instinctive, but I take a little from all the other branches."

"Instinctive is the ability to produce accurate and powerful magic without the use of specific incantation or tools," Spencer described, and Grace recognised the sentence structure of a modern (and reasonably accurate) magical encyclopaedia she had seen on his bookshelf. "They are very rare and very powerful."

"So I'm told," she mused. "But then, I've always been a bit weird. It's particularly unusual to find someone with instinctive magic and psychic abilities. I used to get a lot of stick about that, back at Cross Bones."

"So, you didn't learn magic, it just sort of happened?" Spencer asked, thoughtfully.

"Yes. Though even with higher magic there's no kind of organised schooling."

"No Hogwarts?"

"Sadly, no." Grace laughed. "But on the plus side, no Ministry of Magic, telling everyone how to live. Just a handful of mad coppers in a small nick in Southwalk. You tend to learn from the people around you, or find a book and start reading. I picked up a lot from Charlie Lightfoot, and he's old-school organised. He's got a staff and everything."

"Don't people think that's a little odd?" Spencer asked. "A cop walking around with a magical staff?"

"A little. But there's usually a lot more going on for them to focus on. Plus, it's a lot like one of those tall, carved walking staffs you get outside hiking shops in tourist towns, so it doesn't look too weird," she recalled. "It's beautiful, actually. I used to want to make one too."

"What stopped you?" he asked, curious.

"Impatience, mostly," she grinned. "Though after I started at the UCU I didn't have time. It takes time and dedication, and I was never very good at staying still."

"I've noticed," he remarked, earning himself a playful elbow to the side. "Except when you're reading."

"Yeah, except then."

They fell silent as the possible cryptid screamed again. The noise echoed across the forest, momentarily stilling the nocturnal activities of its residents. It sounded pretty far away now, and this time neither of them really responded.

"I've been meaning to ask," Spencer began, after a while. "How did you get out of that elevator in New York?"

Grace paused, remembering the way the four secret service agents had crumpled to the floor.

"I was very lucky," she told him, truthfully. "They pushed me to the back of the lift, so I had a split second more than they did, and I just acted on instinct. I put up a shield charm – or, what would have been one, if I'd done anything other than point and think."

She felt him nodding slowly. "And the broken wall and cell-phone?"

"Same thing," she replied quietly. "He realised I wasn't dying and tried to shoot me, and I didn't have time to reach for my gun, so I struck out. There wasn't any form to it, I just wanted him as far away from me as I could get him."

Spencer squeezed her hand. "For the record, I'm glad you did it."

"Noted," she said, with a sad smile. "As a rule, I hate using my magic to fight. It's too easy to lose control."

"Because of the adrenaline?"

"Yes," said Grace. "And because it's too much fun."

She felt, rather than saw, his eyes slide towards her.

"I don't enjoy hurting people," she said quietly. "But if you have a sparring partner of equal ability, it's about the best fun you can have with your clothes on. It's challenging and energetic and exciting. Me and Max, and Sophie used to spar all the time."

 _And Simon._

"I kind of miss it. It's not something I can really do while I'm here – too much paperwork."

"'While' you're here?" Spencer repeated. "Are you – you're not thinking of going away, are you?"

He sounded almost hurt.

"No, not at all," she said, surprised.

"Good. I'd – uh… I'd really miss you."

Grace felt her cheeks get a little warm. She was suddenly glad that he wasn't looking at her – and that she couldn't see his face. "I'd miss you too."

"Good. That's – good."

"I suppose…" she considered. "I suppose I never really expected to be here so long."

"Two years isn't that long," he observed, sounding relieved.

"No." She chuckled. "Certainly doesn't feel like it."

"It feels like you've been here forever."


	17. Citizens' Arrest

**Service should resume as normal now, at least for a little while ;) Thanks for all the lovely messages of support, and for your patience :) My mum's doing better, I wrote a play, and I'm still massively behind in my writing XD**

 **Seriously though, I hate letting you guys down, and it's been amazing to get such lovely messages. I love you guys!**

 **0o0**

 **Essential listening: Riots, by A R Rahman**

0o0

Derek rolled over and squinted unhappily at the clock.

As worried as he was for Reid and Pearce, he had only been asleep for maybe an hour. Making a noise of pure disgust with the way the night was going, he grabbed his cell the moment before it vibrated itself off the nightstand.

He frowned for a moment at the time, and then at the caller ID. As much as he was enjoying flirting with the fiery arson chief, he really couldn't imagine her calling him for banter at 4 a.m.

"Morgan."

"Hey there, hot stuff. Got a sticky situation out here," she said, without preamble. "Could do with your team's assistance."

Responding to the calm, tense tone, he was already out of bed and pulling his shirt on. He'd heard that tone earlier, when half the population of the Pine Barrens had been temporarily trapped in a burning building. Something was obviously afoot, and Ashleigh Carter was clearly already in the thick of it.

"What do you need?" he asked, retrieving his shoes from under the nightstand.

"Feet on the ground. I called Agent Hotcher, but it just went to voicemail. I guess he's a heavy sleeper, huh?"

 _Not normally_ , Derek thought, wondering about his boss's damaged ears. He'd told them that the doctor had signed off on him being in the field, but if he couldn't hear his phone…

"I'll get him," he assured the chief.

Halfway into his pants, he paused by the window. His room faced out into the woods, away from the town, so there was little to see at this normally quiet hour of the morning. There was, however, a murmur of unrest, audible even through the sealed double glazing. Now he thought about it, there was an unhealthy tinge to the darkness, as though something nearby was alight.

"Ashleigh, what's goin' on?"

0o0

The screaming was the first thing that hit them as the five agents piled out of the front doors of their small hotel.

Prentiss had fought to reluctant and painful wakefulness when Derek had hammered on her door and grabbed whatever clothing was to hand. So had the rest of the team, by the looks of things, creating a jarring combination of casual clothes and smart suits that looked particularly surreal against the backdrop of the distressed crowd and the burning building across the road.

At first sight, it looked like about thirty of the town's concerned citizens had leapt out of bed at the first sign of fire – perhaps a few of them had. They were making a lot of noise, certainly, and crowding around the building.

The closer they got, however, the easier it was to make out what they were shouting, and none of it was good.

Without waiting for instruction, the team split up at some speed. JJ hurried to coordinate the efforts of a vanful auxiliary firefighters who had just arrived. They needed a cordon, fast and no one was better at organising people than JJ.

 _And the further away from that mess she is, the happier I'll be_ , Emily thought, as she ran after the boys.

Morgan and Hotch were already wading into what had obviously quite recently been an angry mob, but had devolved into a melee now the fire service had arrived. They couldn't use guns here – there was no telling who was breaking the law and who wasn't, and if anyone discharged a weapon, at such close quarters, it could hit literally anyone.

Apparently, some of these fine, upstanding citizens did not want this particular fire to be put out.

Almost upon them herself, Emily was pulled up by a sudden, awful realisation.

She knew this building.

She and Rossi had only been there a handful of hours ago. She looked up. Flames were already licking around the window of the candy store. The ground floor was already a hellish inferno.

 _All that sugar…_

"Is she still in there?" Rossi barked, somewhere to Emily's right.

One of Chief Carter's crew, a woman Emily remembered from earlier in the day, answered. She was a small woman, rendered completely invisible by the crowd.

"The chief went in to get her out!"

There was the unmistakeable sound of someone being kneed in the testicles, followed by a primal sort of groan. The man in front of Emily crumpled, and suddenly the deputy appeared. She already had a black eye.

"We need a clear path to the door!" she yelled.

Moving quickly, Emily dragged the fallen man to his feet and hauled him backwards, out of the way. One of JJ's auxiliary firefighters took him off her hands and she waded back in. Somewhere nearby, Rossi did the same with a large woman who was screaming something furious and unintelligible.

"FBI! Clear a path!" Emily shouted. " _Move!_ "

She turned in time to see a heavyset man take a swing at the back of Rossi's head. The blow never connected; Emily yanked the man's arm back and twisted it behind his back.

"I don't think so, do you?"

"Thanks," Rossi shouted, over the noise of the crowd.

"The entire building's on fire, what the hell is wrong with you?" Emily demanded as she pulled the struggling man back towards the firefighters, not really expecting an answer.

"Let it burn!" he hissed. "That bitch has been setting fires all over town!"

 _You have got to be kidding me._

"No, she has not," Emily shouted. "There is absolutely no evidence that – you know what? I don't even know why I'm talking to you!"

Thrusting the man into the line of auxiliary firefighters, she ran back into the fray.

"Get the hell out of the way!" Rossi yelled, somewhere in front of her.

Emily pulled another woman back and she stumbled, dragging the man beside her to the ground, clearing enough space for her to see the door of the candy store explode outwards under the force of Chief Carter's boot, showering a couple of the more recalcitrant members of the mob with sparks.

Ashleigh Carter emerged out of the depths of the inferno, the limp form of Missy Carpenter slung over her shoulder. Even with full fire gear on, the smoke and flames must have taken their toll, because the chief didn't bother speaking as she strode through crowd, one or two of whom had already begun to back away, appalled at the sight of the woman who had been at the centre of this attack.

Emily got a good look at her as Carter carried her past, towards the waiting ambulances. Her face was blackened with soot and the skin of her hands and arms had blistered from the heat. The tips of her hair were singed, though luckily no more than that. The candy store owner must have been in bed above the shop when she noticed the fire, Emily guessed, and wrapped as much of herself as she could in her blanket before trying to get out.

 _Why didn't she just jump out of the window?_ Emily wondered, before the answer came to her.

"Rambo!" she gasped, as Rossi muttered it.

Before she knew it, the older agent had taken off into the burning candy store.

"Rossi? Rossi! What the hell?" Emily cried, launching herself after him.

She was quickly propelled backwards by the intense heat, however, and she momentarily lost her footing. Someone dragged her upright and Emily recognised a pale girl she'd seen at the town meeting fire, only a few short hours before.

"What on Earth is he doing?" the girl gasped, sounding terrified.

"He went in after the cat," Emily breathed.

For several, long moments, the pair clung to one another, frozen in an attitude of horror among the crowd, which was beginning to dissipate now the firefighters and FBI were gaining the upper hand. Her heart in her mouth, Emily hardly dared to breathe, her dread increasing with every second that David Rossi, successful author, (somewhat) maverick agent and one of her best friends failed to emerge from the burning candy store.

"Come on! Come on!" she found herself hissing, the girl beside her gripping Emily's arm painfully tight, clearly just as afraid as she was.

Finally, when Emily had all but given up hope, Rossi burst through the door, his expensive jacket wrapped tightly around a quivering bundle in his arms.

"Get out of his way!" Emily roared, tearing herself away from the frightened teenager and pushing through a small knot of angry mob members. Dimly, she recognised one of them as being the mole-like Randy Ewing, who was shouting something slightly hysterical about moral decency. He gave an undignified squawk as Emily yanked him out of the way of Rossi, whose soot streaked form was much closer now.

"Are you insane?" Emily demanded, cuffing a furious Randy Ewing, who had just tried to bite her.

"Coul-couldn't leave him in – there," Rossi coughed. "Been through enough."

"Rossi, what the hell?" Morgan shouted, over the heads of the remaining rabble.

"Couldn't let – let him go out like that…"

"Ambulance, now," Emily ordered, and Rossi nodded.

Morgan gave a low whistle and met Emily's eyes. She nodded.

"First Reid, now Rossi?" Morgan observed. "What is goin' on with this team?"

Emily shook her head, glancing in the older agent's direction. He was getting one of the paramedics to help treat Rambo, now that Missy Carpenter was already on her way to the hospital. She rolled her eyes, her heart rate beginning to return to normal.

"I'm surprised his hair didn't light on fire, the amount of gel he uses," she remarked, loudly.

"I heard that!"

 _He's okay,_ she thought. _If he's got enough in him to be sarcastic, he's okay._

"What was he even thinking?" Morgan asked, taking Ewing's other arm.

The small man tried to lash out, despite the handcuffs. "I've never been treated this way in my life! Unhand me at once!"

"You were obstructing the emergency services, simmer down," Morgan told him, sternly.

"Also, you tried to bite a member of law enforcement," Emily added. "So, I'm gonna go with 'no'."

"I did not! You lying slut!" He cast around for support, and his eyes lit on the pale teenager who had pulled Emily to her feet a few minutes before.

"Faye! Faye, sweetie, go fetch your Pop – tell him I'm being falsely arrested!"

The girl stared at him for a moment, then looked up at the candy store, still burning fiercely. Emily followed her gaze; Missy Carpenter was going to have to start from scratch after all.

Assuming she survived.

"What are you waiting for?" Ewing asked, clearly surprised at her lack of action.

"No," she said, slowly.

"What did you say?" he demanded, gobsmacked. "Honey, just fetch your pops."

"He's already here," she said, frowning.

"Great!" Ewing laughed. "Now you'll see what's coming to you –"

"I meant 'no', you're not being falsely arrested."

"What?"

"I saw you, Randy. You tried to bite her." She pointed at Emily. Her hand was shaking, though whether this was fear or anger was unclear.

The two agents stayed quite still. The young woman had the look of someone who had something powerful to say.

"Now, Faye, don't lie – you mustn't lie –" Ewing stuttered, but Faye ignored him.

"And I'll tell you something else, Randy," she carried on, with a strange kind of relentless intensity, her voice steadily rising. "Dad didn't come here to bail you out. He came here to make you stop. I answered the phone when Barbara called. I know what you both did – and you should have seen the look on Dad's face when she told him you guys were burning down 'that bitch's store' – knowing full well she was inside. How proud she sounded! Gleeful! Like someone had given her some kind of award. Missy Carpenter never did anything to anyone! You guys make me sick!"

"Faye, shut the hell up!"

"No way! Even Dad thinks you're nutcases now, and it's about goddamn time!"

"You little bitch, you –" Ewing tried to lunge at Faye Dunphy, but doing that while being held by Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan was a lot like being cemented to a brick wall.

"Nuh-uh." Morgan took him by both arms and dragged him away to a minibus that was being used as the regional version of a riot van.

"Faye, right? You willing to give us a statement to that effect?" Emily asked.

The response was instant, and fairly enthusiastic. "Yes ma'am!"

"Great. We'll need your Dad to be present, because of your age."

She led her towards the line of police cars, wondering at the dark look that had crossed the girl's features at that.

0o0

Aaron left the break room of the Pine Barrens Combined Fire Department Headquarters with two large, steaming mugs of coffee. When Dave had flatly refused to go to the hospital, and the paramedics had signed him off, shaking their heads at his stubbornness, Aaron had met JJ's eyes over their friend's head and she had persuaded him to go back to the hotel to shower at least. It had come as no surprise whatsoever to find him back, showered, and loitering behind the interview window about twenty minutes later. Joining him, he pushed one of the mugs into his friend's hand.

"It was intentional then?" said Dave; Aaron was aware that it wasn't really a question.

"It looks that way."

Dave nodded, slowly. "Any word on Missy Carpenter?"

"Not yet."

Aaron pulled his cell out of his pocket and frowned at the lack of messages. At the back of his mind lurked the awareness that the two youngest and most incident-prone agents (if what he'd managed to prise out of Grace's file from the UK was anything to go by) had still not checked in. Still, it would be dawn soon, and then they could send out a search party, assuming the candy store fire was out by then. The sugar was proving particularly difficult to extinguish.

Everyone was far too wired to sleep now, and even JJ had given up any hope of it, so they were all spread about the station, periodically checking their cell phones and trying not to look too worried.

Aaron turned his head and looked at Dave along his own shoulder. The other man looked exhausted, but no more so than he had on many other cases that had taken them into the early mornings. He obviously had been affected by the fire, though, as the normally unflappable agent shifted slightly under his friend's scrutiny.

"Do I need to worry about this?" Aaron asked, returning his eyes to the viewing window.

In the room beyond, Barbara Milette was pacing up and down, propelled by her righteous anger and the remnants of the adrenaline from the fire. They had decided unanimously to let them stew for a few hours, so the fire could be put out and the scene properly assessed – and so they could regroup themselves a little.

It seemed certain that Milette and Ewing were behind this particular fire, but they needed proof of that before they could move forward. They didn't fit the profile for the other fires, and those had become disturbingly frequent occurrences. When the unsub had locked the doors of the town meeting hall, the unsub had escalated to a very dangerous and unpredictable level.

"About me, you mean?"

Aaron nodded, though both agents kept their eyes to the front. "You walked into a burning building."

"Rambo's all Missy Carpenter has left, now the good people of the town have seen fit to burn down her store," Rossi commented. "They've both been through a lot – I couldn't just let him go out like that."

"If something had gone wrong," Aaron pointed out, thinking that it was something of a miracle that nothing had, "someone would have had to go in after you, putting their life at risk as well."

"I know."

Aaron gave his friend a side-long glance.

"I'm not going to apologise for it," Dave told him, after a moment. "I know what it feels like to be a grumpy old bastard. I felt a kinship with him."

As if it had been a pre-arranged signal, both men looked over to far corner of the room, where Frank Dunphy's daughter was lavishing attention on the curmudgeonly cat, who had calmed down considerably after one of the firemen had treated him with oxygen and water. Like his mistress, he had somehow escaped more than singed fur, but he was obviously quite traumatised. The teenager had taken it upon herself to look after him, given that she had to give a statement and her father (and only guardian) was in an interview room, waiting to be grilled about the most recent fire.

The cat's attitude to men had not changed – he'd tried to bite two of the male firefighters, and Morgan now had several sizeable scratches on his wrist and the back of his hand – with one exception. When the female firefighter who had been treating him had finished, he would tolerate no one but David Rossi to carry him into the station. He had allowed the senior agent to feed him some chicken out of their take-out leftovers and sit with him on his lap for the ten minutes it had taken for the other members of the team to trickle back and find themselves unable to keep the smirk off their faces at the bizarre scene.

By the time Aaron had made him a coffee, Dave and Rambo were at opposite ends of the room, Morgan was nursing his wounds and Emily and JJ were lost in that kind of hysterical laughter you got sometimes after a tense situation.

"Okay," said Aaron. "But in future I would appreciate it if you left fires to the firefighters."

"Noted."

 **0o0**

 **Thanks to Novellus Manbat for the choice of essential listening this week! :) You da man, Grandpa ;)**


	18. Glass Houses

**Essential listening: Burn it Down, by Linkin Park**

0o0

Spencer woke grudgingly, aware that he hadn't had enough sleep and that the makeshift bed wasn't particularly comfortable. He cracked an eye and twisted, rubbing his sleeve to clear a space in the thin film of condensation that had formed on the car's windows. Unlike the first five times he had awoken, pale dawn light was filtering through the canopy. A low, dense mist had descended during the night and it hung around the trees like a shroud, as if the agents and their SUV had been placed in a kind of bubble.

He listened for a moment, but the woods were quiet now except for the birds. There were no vast rustlings or distant screams. All was well.

Relaxing, he made himself comfortable again. There was no point moving just yet, not with the mist as thick as it was – and Grace was still fast asleep. He settled back beside her, enjoying the warmth of her proximity and the peaceful expression on her face.

She looked so innocent when she was sleeping – as if the laws of physics worked just the way they should around her; as if ghosts were things that only happened in the pages of a book and butterflies made out of light were nothing but daydreams. Remembering them, Spencer glanced up at the ceiling of the car. There was no longer any trace of the airy things, and for a moment he wondered whether he had imagined the whole thing.

Maybe he and Grace were just a little nuts, letting their imaginations get the better of them…

He flexed his fingers, remembering the feel of the butterfly that had landed on his hand. It had certainly felt real – and it wasn't as if he was the only one that knew something of the weirdness in Grace's life, if Hotch's reaction to their recent case in Lower Canaan was anything to go by.

Spencer smiled warmly as she shifted in her sleep and tucked herself in against his chest, startling him. He wrapped an arm around her, thinking that there were definitely perks to being stuck in a car in the middle of a terrifying forest.

0o0

Grace stirred, finding herself alone in the car, wrapped in Spencer's coat. She sat up and stretched, not immediately worried, since her friend was armed and he was highly unlikely to leave the car if the screaming thing was anywhere nearby.

Using her sleeve to rub some of the condensation off the window, she peered out into the early morning light. It was misty, though it seemed as if the mist was beginning to clear, and brilliant shafts of pale gold were slicing through, like something out of a painting. Reid was a little way up the road, obviously on a mobile phone. Automatically, her hand went to where she'd left hers and found his cell instead, the battery totally flat.

Grace smiled to herself, watching him for a moment, then came to her senses and scowled at her lack of self-control.

 _I'll have to give myself a stern talking to when we get out of here_ , she decided, the slight smile returning to her face as Spencer turned and walked back to the car. It faded quickly when she saw the ugly expression on his face.

"What happened?" she asked, as he climbed back inside their makeshift den.

"Well, we've got cell signal again," he told her, handing over her mobile. "Mine had no battery, so…"

"But?"

"There was another fire last night."

Grace's face mirrored his dark expression.

"Anybody hurt?" she asked, all thought of mist and devils driven completely from her mind.

"Missy Carpenter – she's in the hospital with second degree burns," said Spencer. "Her candy store burned to the ground."

Grace frowned, puzzled.

"Why would the unsub want to hurt Missy Carpenter?" she asked. "From the way that viper in a shift dress talked about her, she's hardly at the core of the community."

"Oh, this wasn't the unsub," Spencer told her, and now she could hear the anger in his voice. "The method of ignition was totally different. A mob led by Barbara Millette and Randy Ewing threw improvised Molotov cocktails through her bedroom window and storefront."

Grace felt her eyebrows shot up into her fringe. "Fucking hell!"

"You can say that again."

"My God, what awful people!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't like to be Ewing or Millette when Ash gets done with them. Is Carpenter stable?"

"Yeah. Though Emily said she hasn't come round yet."

Grace shook her head and glared out into the forest. "That's the trouble with a witch hunt," she complained. "They always go for the wrong person and they _always_ go too far."

Spencer nodded. "Luckily, we've got enough to charge them."

"Yeah?"

"Half a dozen witnesses, including Frank Dunphy and his daughter," he told her.

"Well, that's something, at least," Grace mused. She frowned again. "Dunphy wasn't involved?"

"No," Spencer said, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Emily said it looks like the first he knew about it was when Millette called him to crow about it."

"Bet that went down well," Grace scoffed. "It's about time those three troublemakers had a reality check."

"Tch-yeah. Pretty sure they're about to," Spencer observed. "They left them to stew overnight," he explained, on her raised eyebrow. "Garcia got a fix on your cell, by the way. She called us a mechanic."

"Awesome. I didn't feel like walking out of here," she remarked. "Though it is pretty."

Spencer nodded. "Yeah, it's beautiful in the light."

Grace smiled, noting the unconscious contrast he was making with the night before. "Most things are – it's the unknown that scares us. Come on, let's get the car straightened up before our rescuer gets here."

It didn't take long to put the seats back together. When they were done, Grace got out and stretched her legs. The air outside was fresh and cool – perfect walking weather. Grace inhaled deeply, revelling in the sweetness of the morning.

"Grace…" Spencer emerged from the SUV with a pensive expression on his face. "The map's changed again."

He spread it over the bonnet of the unresponsive car to show her.

"Is it back to normal?" Grace asked.

"Yeah! I mean – it's the same as the first time I looked at it, before we left yesterday." He pointed to a small road in the middle of the road. "That's the turning we… misplaced."

"I'm pretty sure someone misplaced it for us," Grace muttered. She looked back along the road they had driven endlessly up and down the night before. In the distance, she could just make out a break in the trees. "That it?"

"Could be," said Spencer, rubbing the overnight stubble that had formed on his chin. "Does that mean we should leave the woods, or try to make it to Rosemary Purdy's?"

Grace ran a hand through her tousled hair, thinking. "Well, if it's Purdy who was keeping us away, she seems to have stopped," she said slowly. "Though I wouldn't call it an open invitation."

There was a pause; she felt Spencer's eyes slide sideways in her direction. "You – you think she's the reason we got stuck out here?"

"Seems reasonable." She met his gaze and read the mild frustration in his face. Remembering her not-quite-promise to keep her friend in the loop from now on. "Ash told me she reads tarot for people out of Missy Carpenter's candy store."

"And you were going to tell me this…?"

"Probably never," Grace admitted. "Unless it was pertinent to the case. People like me and Rosemary Purdy – if Ash's feeling about her is right – we have to keep stuff like this to ourselves. It's not that I don't trust you," she added, on his hurt expression. She reached for his hand. "It's just that people don't trust people like us."

Spencer looked down for a moment, though he didn't let go of her hand. "Okay," he said, eventually. "You think she'll try to keep us out again?"

"I don't think so. Either she's given up now, or she's run out of steam."

"That… doesn't exactly fill me with confidence."

She patted his hand. "We've got one advantage that Rosemary Purdy doesn't know about."

"What's that?"

She smirked. "Me."

Spencer watched her face closely for a moment – enough to know that she wasn't entirely joking. "Okay," he said again. "I'll just grab my jacket."

Grace nodded, letting him go. With any luck, Purdy would turn out to be the kind of woman who didn't like visitors, rather than the kind who liked to roast them alive. The tricks she'd used to keep them out were clever and skilful, but not especially powerful, and Grace was pretty sure that if it came to a fight she could probably best her.

She'd rather not, however, while Spencer was around to get hurt.

She looked around for a moment as her friend locked up the SUV, enjoying the peace and quiet while it lasted. After a moment, her eyes fell on a depression in the ground, a few feet from the front of the car. Slowly, she walked towards it, her stomach doing strange little squirrelly things as she did so.

There, in the damp earth, was the impression of something's foot.

It was large – about as big as the print of her boot, only wider and cloven in two.

She was still staring at it when Spencer appeared beside her.

"Are you ready to…" his voice faltered as he saw what she was looking at. He swallowed. "There – uh – there are more on the other side of the car," he told her. "And at the crest of the hill."

Silently, wondering when he had intended to break that particular bit of news to her, Grace met his eyes.

"I shouldn't have said it wasn't real," he said.

"I don't think it heard you," she offered. "I think it was just curious."

He nodded slowly, and linked arms with her as they turned their backs on the disturbing footprints.

"So, New Jersey Devils are real," he mused.

"Looks like it."

"And so are Graces."

She tried to glare at him, she really did. If she were honest, she was pleased he was taking this most recent foray into the world of the mystical so well, and not running for the hills.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, each following the thread of their own thoughts.

"Thanks," said Spencer, when they were almost upon the turning that hopefully led towards the Purdy farmstead.

"For what?" Grace asked, puzzled.

"Sharing all this weirdness with me."

Grace laughed. "I'm sure that feeling of gratitude will wear off," she told him.

Spencer shook his head at her flippant tone. "For trusting me, then."

"That won't – unless you want me to."

His fingers brushed along her hand, as if he wanted to pat it, but wasn't sure if she'd be cool with it. "Seriously, though," he said. "I always thought I was the strangest person I knew. It's – uh – it's nice to know that there's someone equally odd around."

"Hah!"

The corners of his mouth turned up, pleased to have made her laugh. "And I figure it can't be easy showing this kind of stuff to someone who… well, who isn't like you."

"You're more like me than you think," she said, squeezing his arm. "Tell me again about that physics magic that brings all the girls to the yard."

0o0

Walking swiftly through the station, Emily loaded up on caffeine. It had been, all tolled, a horrible night. Now though, safe in the knowledge that Reid and Pearce were okay, if a little irritated at having to spend a whole night sleeping in a car, it was time to settle other matters.

Emily opened the door and went in, feeling slightly satisfied by the little start Barbara Millette gave as they interrupted her pacing. She and Hotch sat down, expecting her to follow suit, but instead she chose to stand, leaning both hands on the desk, like they were in a board meeting and she was about to lay down the law.

"I hope you have good lawyers – it's against my civil rights to keep me here without charging me!" she began.

Emily go the impression that she had been winding up to this speech for several hours.

"I've done nothing wrong! All I did was what you failed to do – to drive a dangerous influence out of our community! I should be being thanked instead of locked up in here, away from my kids. They're –"

"They're with your sister," Hotch interrupted. "You didn't seem quite so concerned when you left them on their own to go out in the middle of the night."

Momentarily flustered, she glared at him. "You don't know a thing about me, or my kids. No one here is prepared to do what they have to – none of you deserve to keep your jobs, harassing upstanding citizens like me when there's an arsonist in town," she declared, punctuating each point with a sharp sniff.

"You told our colleagues in an earlier interview that you believed that Missy Carpenter was the arsonist," Emily reminded her.

"Yes! She's an awful woman!"

"And yet it was her store, with her residence above it that burned down tonight," Emily continued. "Are you suggesting that she burned it down herself?"

"No, of course –" Millette paused and the two agents watched in mild fascination as she quickly reconsidered her options. Her eyes darted around the interview room. "Yes. Yes, she must have," she said, abruptly.

"And why would she do that?" Hotch asked.

"To divert attention from herself, of course!" Millette snapped.

"I'd say she's now very much the centre of attention," Hotch remarked, opening the file in front of him with the notes he'd made. "Second degree burns, smoke inhalation – she's yet to wake up."

"Well, it's not my fault that the silly bitch went and burned her own house down," sniffed Millette, crossing her arms. "Still, she'll have to go now – good riddance of bad rubbish, that's what I say!"

"We're not so sure that's what happened," said Emily.

Millette looked at the unit chief as if he was something unpleasant that had just crawled out from under her shoe. "Then it's her own fault for being targeted. She must have annoyed the arsonist somehow."

"How?" Emily asked.

"How should I know?" Millette snapped. "Perhaps they were working together and had a falling out!"

"Or maybe, someone else targeted Ms Carpenter," said Hotch.

Emily glanced in his direction. He wasn't specifically showing it, but her years with the BAU told her that her friend was very, very angry. Millette seemed completely oblivious to it, and to the hole she was digging for herself.

"Well, that has nothing to do with me! I demand you let me go home! You can't keep me here –"

"Actually, we can keep you for up to forty-eight hours on suspicion," said Emily.

"Suspicion of what? Of being a useful member of society?" Millette screeched. "That's you're problem, all of you law enforcement nobodies! You can't see the value in someone like me! Someone who actually cares about the community! As a mother –"

Clearly, that was not a sensible thing to say. Something in Hotch appeared to snap.

" _Sit down!_ " he ordered.

His voice was loud, but he wasn't quite shouting – not yet. The suddenness of it pulled the woman up short and forced her to pay attention to the two agents in front of her. Something of their anger with her must have been painted over their faces, because she gulped and sat down abruptly.

"Why were you out in the street in Brown Mills in the middle of the night, Ms Millette?"

"We have a community helpline. I heard about the fire and I came out to see what I could do to help."

"Our records indicate you live in Pemberton," Emily pointed out. "That's a long way to come."

"I guess I just have a strong community spirit," Millette preened. "Unlike some."

"Unlike Missy Carpenter?" Emily asked.

"Exactly!"

"I think you care very deeply about this community," said Hotch, after a moment.

"I do!"

"And I think you are prepared to do anything it takes to keep your community 'safe'," he added.

"Of course. As a mother, I have a responsibility."

 _Not,_ Emily thought, annoyed, _enough to think maybe your kids needed someone to look out for them while you were out raising hell in the middle of the freaking night._

The woman was beginning to regain some of her earlier smugness, completely unaware that they had her over a barrel.

"I think you did something about it," Hotch continued.

"Well, I couldn't just let her get away with setting half the town on fire, could I? You morons weren't doing anything about it!"

"So you took things into your own hands," Emily said.

"You bet I did."

"You got some friends together, went over to Ms Carpenter's candy store, and threw a bottle of liquor with a lit rag in it through the window of her residence, above the shop, and then another through the store windows."

"Yes, that's exactly it."

"And then you attempted to prevent the emergency services from recuing her from the fire?"

"Well, of course –"

Hotch nodded. "Barbara Millette, under arrest for the attempted murder of Missy Carpenter."

"What?" She gaped at him as the two agents both got to their feet.

"The DA will decide what other offenses you're being charged with. I should tell you that Randolph Ewing has also been charged and has implicated you specifically in his signed confession."

"But –"

They allowed the door to close behind them and leaned against the wall of the room beyond.

"Not gonna lie, that was pretty satisfyin'," said Chief Carter.

Fresh from the fire scene, Carter had a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a grim expression on her soot smeared face.

"Any news on Missy?" Emily asked.

"Nothin' yet," said the chief, shaking her head. "Fire's out. Gonna shower. Can't work this one – I'm too close to it."

"I think that's wise," said Hotch.

"Well, I do have my moments," she gave him half a grin. "Ewing folded like a puddle for Derek. Got a text from Grace – she and Doctor Reid are heading to Rosemary Purdy's homestead."

"I told them to wait for the mechanic," Emily complained.

Carter shrugged. "Can't imagine Grace took to stayin' put for long," she mused. "Particularly after bein' stuck in a car all night."

Emily nodded. She probably wouldn't have, either.

Hotch rubbed his face. "Right, now we've got that nonsense out of the way, perhaps we can focus on our unsub."

"Dunphy?" Carter asked.

Emily frowned.

"I know he doesn't fit your profile, but you said yourselves that it might develop," she added, on their dubious looks. "He's passive aggressive to a fault and he's familiar with almost every one of our scenes."

"And he claims to have had nothing to do with Millette and Ewing," said Hotch, thoughtfully.

"What his daughter said would back him up in that," said Emily. "And she was angry enough about the fire to be telling the truth."

0o0

Rosemary Purdy's cottage was in the middle of the forest.

Even inside Grace's head, it sounded like something out of a fairy story. She and Reid had paused at the top of the hill that led down to the small, old farmstead. The cottage and a long, low barn beside it, were obviously very well maintained, as were the gardens around them.

"If that cottage turns out to be made of gingerbread, I'm out of here," said Spencer, as flippantly as he could.

Grace chuckled. "Let's give her the benefit of the doubt," she suggested. "Could be our misadventure had nothing to do with her at all."

"If it wasn't," Spencer said, in an undertone, as they walked down the shallow hill, "then there's at least one other person in the Pine Barrens who doesn't want us talking to her."

Grace nodded. Her mind on the prickling sensation on the back of her neck that told her they were being observed. She checked her phone. "Well, it's just gone seven – it's still pretty early, but something tells me Miss Purdy is already up." She looked around. There were fruit trees around the edge of the clearing, forming a sort of soft boundary to the surrounding woods, and banks of neat fruit and vegetable beds. Chickens chased one another among the flowers.

Purdy had barrels beneath every gutter pipe, collecting rainwater, and behind the barn, rising high above the treeline, was a small wind turbine. The pitched roof bore a bank of solar panels that glinted in the early morning sunlight.

It was a beautiful set up.

"You know, if I survive this FBI malarkey, remind me I want to retire to somewhere like this," she said.

Reid cast his eyes around the Purdy farmstead and grinned. "I can totally see that."

As they strolled through the flowers, the front door of the cottage swung open. A small woman stood watching them, wearing a floral skirt and a yellow cardigan, her hair piled up haphazardly on top of her head. Her feet were bare and stained with the dust of the land around her cottage.

Across the garden, Grace met her eyes and _knew_.

"Morning," she called, already pulling out her badge. "Sorry to disturb you so early, mistress. We're with the FBI."

She felt, rather than saw, Spencer's eyes flick in her direction at the form of address Grace had used.

Purdy narrowed her eyes at Grace for a moment. She opened her screen door and stepped, barefoot, onto the porch, looking them both up and down. "FBI, huh? Don't think I've heard of one of you around here before," she said, closely examining their badges.

"We're hoping to speak to Rosemary Purdy," said Spencer, in his friendly-and-non-threatening voice. "Is that you?"

Purdy broke off her study of Grace to look at him. "Yes, I answer to that name."

"I'm afraid there's been some bother in the Pine Barrens," Grace explained. "We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions."

"I'm not sure how much help I'll be," said Purdy. "I spend most of my time out here. Still, you'd better come in."

They followed her up the steps of the porch and into a large, bright kitchen.


	19. Who We Want to Be

**Essential listening: Bird Set Free, by Sia**

0o0

Purdy had offered them seats at her kitchen table and offered them tea, which Grace had politely declined. There had been something in her voice that had convinced Spencer to decline as well, even though both of them were very thirsty and still quite cold.

That was one of the rules: never accept food or drink from a practitioner you don't know – particularly one who obviously had the grasp of herbs and plants that Purdy did. The shelves in her kitchen were covered with jars of preserves and bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling. A pile of recipe books took up one end of the table, their spines cracked and blistered with age. One near the middle, Grace was pretty sure, wasn't a recipe book at all – or, at least, contained a different kind of recipe.

There was a slight smell of burning in the air, like a recently snuffed candle, and Grace's eyes were immediately drawn to a silver dish on the draining board, hastily and ineffectively covered by a tea towel. There was a jar of salt, just visible beside it.

She hid a slight smile. Purdy really was old school.

"What did you want to ask me?" she said, drawing Grace's attention back to her – a little too late, however.

"There have been a series of fires in the area," Spencer told her.

"Yes, I heard about it on the radio," said Purdy, with a frown. "The host said some people had died."

"I'm afraid so."

"The community's pretty shaken up," said Grace.

"I got that impression," said Purdy. "Thought I'd keep my distance for a week or so. I also wanted to keep an eye on my home."

"You're afraid someone might come out here and set a fire?" Spencer asked.

Purdy smiled at him. "When you live in the middle of a forest, you worry about fires being set anywhere."

"I suppose you would be," he agreed. "We're just checking up on anyone who has been in the area of the fires before they were set."

"What do you need to know?"

"Uh, you've been around the old folks' home in County Lakes a lot, recently?" Spencer said, as delicately as he could. "Could we ask why?"

"Sure," said Purdy, smiling slightly at his manner. "One of the staff up there has been looking into making a garden for the residents and starting up a renewable energy class. He came to my stall at the market in Pemberton a few weeks back and asked if I could give him some advice on it."

"So you went up to _Tall Pines_ to take a look around?"

"Yes," said Purdy. "They've got a big lot our back with some real potential. Earl and Mitch, one of the residents, talked me into coming and giving a demonstration. They're a good bunch – they have talks on a whole variety of things. I read their sign-up sheet and figured I might go back again sometime, learn something new."

"They let people from outside _Tall Pines_ attend the talks?" Grace asked.

Purdy nodded. "That's what Earl told me. It's a way of raising a bit of money for the kitty and it means the residents get other people to interact with."

"It seems like a good set up," said Grace, thinking that this rather opened up their pool of potential unsubs.

"How about Presidential Lakes?" Spencer asked.

"There's a grocery store there who stock my preserves this time of year," she responded. "I have the order sheets if you want to look?"

"I don't think that'll be necessary," said Grace, who was beginning to get the impression that Purdy was probably the least informed about the origins of the fires as it was possible to be. "You have a market stall in Pemberton, I think?"

"That's right – first Thursday of each month."

"Do you mind if I ask how you make ends meet?" Grace asked, genuinely curious. "If it's not too impertinent."

Purdy looked at her sideways for a moment, obviously trying to work out why she wanted to know. "My father had a bad fall at the farm he worked at and it damaged his brain. He had to stop working," she said, eventually. "They gave him a pretty big settlement, so he and Mom moved out here. They barely spent any of it, and I leave most of it in a savings account, except when I need something for the house or gardens, or it's a special occasion."

"I'm sorry to hear about your father," Grace told her. "Though it looks like he and your mother made a beautiful home together out here."

A genuine smile graced the woman's face, making her dark eyes dance. "They did," she said, and nodded to a framed photograph amongst the jars on the shelves, evidently of her and her parents when she was young. "I like to keep them where they can keep an eye on things. They loved it here – I had them buried out in the woods when they passed."

"I think I saw their graves on the walk here," said Grace. "There were yellow roses."

"Mom's favourite," Purdy explained. "It was her birthday last week."

"My dad and I used to take orange crysanths for my mum," Grace confided, and both women smiled, momentarily united in the understanding that love didn't stop just because someone was dead.

"Was that why you were in Manchester on Saturday?"

Purdy nodded. "I know I grow my own flowers for most of the year, so it seems silly to go to the florist, but roses really aren't my forte. Dad always got Mom's birthday flowers from there, so I guess I like carrying on the tradition."

Both agents nodded. That made sense.

"I also had some shopping to do – I just found out that my cousin is expecting a baby, so I needed a few things from the fabric shop to make a quilt for them – that's another tradition, I suppose."

"Congratulations," said Spencer, with genuine cheer.

Grace guessed he was thinking of JJ.

"Thank you," said Purdy, graciously. "You know, I've spent so much time on my own out here, I forget there's a whole world out there sometimes. It takes something like that to make you realise you ought to reconnect. I met up with Carl and his wife Becky at a coffee shop in Brown Mills on Wednesday, if you needed to know."

"Thanks," said Spencer. "As we said, this really is the kind of thing we're asking everybody, um…"

"But someone brought up my name," Purdy finished. She didn't sound angry, just weary, as if that sort of thing was always to be anticipated.

Grace felt for her. It wasn't easy going through life as the odd woman out, but Purdy had chosen a harder road than she had. People so obviously on the edge were always the first ones to be called out at times like these.

"Let's say the person who mentioned your name clearly had their own agenda," Grace said carefully. "But since you've been in a couple of the rig-ht places just prior to a fire, I don't suppose you saw anyone acting strangely?"

"I wish I could tell you," said Purdy. "But I don't go to town much, and when I do, everyone's behaviour seems pretty bizarre."

"I know exactly what you mean," Spencer admitted, ruefully. "Look, I'm sorry to have to ask this, but we've been checking the local stores for anyone buying the kinds of materials someone would need to start a substantial fire." He paused, and Purdy nodded.

"And you want to know why I bought a barrel of gas two weeks ago?" she guessed. "I keep a supply in the barn for the generator, for the rare occasions when the turbine or the solar farm fails."

"Uh – no, actually, um, we wanted to know about the litre of rubbing alcohol."

For the first time, Purdy looked utterly lost.

"Why?" she asked.

"Whoever is setting these fires is making their own incendiaries," Grace explained. "Rubbing alcohol is one of the component parts."

"Okay," she said, obviously still a little confused. "It's up here."

She stood and led them to a pantry cupboard, which she opened, pulling out a crate of what turned out to be medical supplies. Most of them looked pretty new.

"I cut my arm mending the fence last week," she told them, pointing to a long, red mark on the back of her arm, "and I realised I was pretty low – and what I did have was stuff my dad bought in the nineties."

"Wow," said Reid.

"I know, right?" she laughed. "I cleaned out the whole thing – I found a packet of dates in there from the 1960s. It was like an archaeological dig. I figured I should get some new stuff in. Here." She pulled a receipt out of the front of the crate. "I kept the receipt so I could see what I had. You have to keep on top of stuff like this if you live alone, and I've kind of let it slide."

Sure enough, there was a dated receipt with an array of medical supplies on it, along with some spices and sundries for the kitchen. Purdy had added, in a spidery hand, the items that she hadn't thrown out and the dates on them. It was very organised.

There really wasn't anything about the woman that suggested she fit their profile.

"I think we've pretty much been wasting your time," said Grace. "Sorry for that."

"That's okay," said Purdy, replacing her supplies. "You're doing your jobs."

She met Grace's eyes, and she understood that this _was_ an invitation. "Actually, we will have that cup of tea – if it's not too much trouble?" she said. "We had a little problem with our car, I'm afraid, so it's a long walk back to town."-

Purdy smiled. "No trouble at all, Agent. If you've been stuck out here a while then you're welcome to use my bathroom."

"That's very kind of you, thank you," said Spencer.

Grace waited by the heating kettle as Purdy showed him the way. She was looking out of the window when Purdy came back.

"Is it wise to turn your back on someone you don't know, mistress?" she asked, a few feet behind her.

"It is when you trust them," said Grace, smiling at the use of the old title.

She turned and the two women smiled at one another.

"That was a hell of a trick with the woods, last night," Grace told her with open admiration, as they sat down again, nodding at the scrying equipment in the sink.

"Sorry about that – I think making your car break down too was a bit much," Purdy apologised. "I'm not used to friendly visitors."

"Plenty of unfriendly ones?" Grace guessed.

"Yes," said Purdy sadly. "Well, I imagine you have some idea of that, yourself."

"Yes. And I met the local neighbourhood watch."

"They have a hard time finding their way here these days, too."

They both grinned.

"So, one of us, in the FBI? What's that like?" Purdy asked.

Grace got the impression that she was rather enjoying having the company.

"I don't think there's actually a rule prohibiting it," she told her, "but I try to keep it out of the paperwork."

"That must be hard work," Purdy observed. "If you're anything like me, it's so much a part of everything that it's just there, all the time."

Grace nodded, and Purdy got up to set the tea steeping in the pot.

"I'm used to it, I suppose," she said, and told Purdy about her old, mad, wonderful team in London.

She had the sense not to ask why Grace had left, probably guessing that anything which had chased her halfway across the world was probably pretty painful.

"And the FBI are similarly accommodating?" Purdy asked, surprised. "I've always thought that level of authority would have a problem with our kind of talents."

Grace shrugged. "My unit chief doesn't know much about it, but he's been pretty good about the stuff he does know. I'm pretty sure he's not passing anything on further up the chain of command, though."

"He sounds like a good man," Purdy smiled.

"He is," Grace agreed. "They're all pretty good, if I'm honest."

"Like your friend?" Purdy asked, nodding in the direction she had sent Spencer. "He's got to know about you, the way he was trying not to look too hard at my mother's spell book."

Grace smiled and shook her head. She pursed her lips, thinking about how to describe their odd relationship. "He's a man of science," she said, after some thought. "He struggles with me, I think."

Purdy chuckled. "A scientist would. Still, he seems kind."

"He is."

Purdy nodded. "It's important to have a friend who is kind, particularly for those of us who live our lives on the edge. You two are very cute together."

Grace couldn't quite stop the blush that crept onto her cheeks. "Oh, we're – we're not –"

A creak on the stairs told them that their brief time together was at an end, and Grace clamped her mouth shut as Purdy brought the tea over.

"Thanks," said Spencer. He gave Grace a very strange look, probably noticing how pink she had gone. "Okay?" he asked her in an undertone.

"Mmhmm," she said, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"Okay…"

Grace glanced up at Purdy, who was hiding her face behind a large, blue teacup, sincerely enjoying the slight discomfort she had engineered.

0o0

Dunphy, too, was pacing when they went in.

Hotch had gone off with JJ to publically reassure the public – and condemn the actions of a small number of the locals. They were already reasonably certain that Frank Dunphy had had nothing to do with the candy store fire, but they weren't about to admit that right away, given how hard he'd been working at winding people up. Even if he hadn't physically started the candy store fire, or prompted someone to do it for him, he had engineered the climate of fear among his neighbours that had led to it.

At the very least, given the tenor of his speech after the meeting hall fire, they were entitled to charge him with incitement.

"Is there any word on Missy Carpenter?" he blurted, as Derek and Prentiss sat down.

Derek saw Prentiss's eyes narrow at him; here they had a man who had begun to realise that the road to hell was paved with good intentions and an overactive ego.

"She's stable," he told him, "but her burns are pretty bad. She's yet to regain consciousness."

"Oh Jesus," Dunphy exclaimed. He sank into the seat across from them, his head in his hands. "And her place is gone?"

"Burned to the ground," said Prentiss, with little sympathy for the man. "She's lucky to have got out of there alive."

"Oh Jesus," he said again, but this time it was more of a moan.

"What can you tell us about the fire, Mr Dunphy?" Derek asked.

"I –" He took a moment to collect himself. "I got home after the meeting fire at about midnight." He explained. "I was still pretty wired – I mean, hell, we all were. I dropped Randy and Barbara at Barbara's house – they were all worked up about it, as if the arsonist was targeting them, personally. I told them to go to bed and we'd get together and talk strategy in the morning."

"And you went straight to bed?" Derek queried.

"Pretty much, yeah," he replied. "I tried to read for a little while, but I couldn't focus."

"Can your daughter confirm that?" Prentiss probed.

"What, Faye?" Dunphy asked, surprised. "She went home straight after the fire this evening. I expect she was in bed by ten, as usual."

"You don't know?" Prentiss frowned.

"She's a very grown up kid," he told them. "I trust her to be in bed by ten, and that's when she's in bed. She's good at taking care of herself."

"Okay," said Prentiss noncommittally, though Derek knew, like JJ, she had her doubts about Dunphy's ability to parent.

"I got a call about half three? Maybe a little after," he continued. "Faye answered it and told me it was Barbara. I knew something was wrong straight away, just from Barbara's voice. She sounded so – so exhilarated," he said, with evident disgust. "She told me that she and Randy, and a handful of folks from the Neighbourhood Watch Coalition, had taken matters into their own hands and – and 'sorted out the candy store woman'." He swallowed. "I asked her what she meant and she told me they'd lit her store on fire to send her the message to get out of town!"

"And what did you do?" Derek asked.

"I don't know," Dunphy responded, running a hand raggedly across his face. "I might have told her she'd lost her mind, but I don't think I could speak. I hung up and got straight in my car – I didn't even change," he added, unconsciously patting the pyjamas he was still wearing beneath his jacket. "Faye came with me, too. I – I didn't even think about stopping her. If I'd known it'd turn out so violent I'd have made her stay home."

Prentiss made a non-committal noise. "And when you got to the store?"

"I got straight out of the car – I don't think I even parked properly. I found Barbara and asked what the hell she was doing, but she wouldn't listen. I couldn't see Randy anywhere and I think I just backed up in shock at how happy she looked." He shook his head, some of the horror he obviously felt about it spilling out across his face. "That was pretty much when you guys arrived."

They watched him for the moment, then met each other's gaze. Nothing about his behaviour suggested he wasn't being honest with them.

"I talked to Sheriff Hatton," said Derek. "He and Chief Carter told me you were trying to get people back."

Frank Dunphy nodded, soberly. "It was like they'd gone nuts," he said, in a hollow voice.

"That's what happens when you turn ordinary people into a mob," Prentiss told him, sternly.

Stunned at her choice of words, Dunphy met her eyes for a moment and then nodded, looking defeated.

"What does your Neighbourhood Watch Coalition have against Missy Carpenter?" she asked.

"Nothing!" Dunphy protested. "Or at least, _I_ don't. She's just someone you say 'hi' to on the street, you know? No record, no antisocial behaviour – just a bit of a prickly woman who runs a candy store." He gave them a pained look. "Barbara hates her because she tells the kids stuff like it's okay to get divorced if your partner beats the crap out of you. She sees it as an attack on morality and tradition. Randy goes along with whatever she says. He's like a sponge."

"You don't agree?"

"No! If Faye was with some guy who was beatin' on her, I'd tell her to come home and get a restraining order," he told them, with enough force to really make them believe it. "I… I don't like that she lets the Purdy woman hold her weird little séances in the back of the shop. It makes me uncomfortable – but I wouldn't try to kill her to make her stop!"

"Séances?" Derek asked, puzzled.

Why hadn't that come up before?

"Yeah, candles and incense and nonsense," Dunphy huffed. "The kind of thing that gets people in trouble and gives kids nightmares."

"Is that why you gave us her name?" Derek asked, though he was already reasonably sure of the answer. This whole thing was rapidly becoming a total waste of time.

Dunphy looked shifty for a moment, and then nodded. "I was hoping if you folks looked into it you'd be able to put a stop to it."

"So you deliberately wasted FBI, police and arson investigators' time?" Prentiss queried, doggedly.

Dunphy licked his lips, nervously. "Is it a waste of time if it leads to something else?" he asked, with a weird sort of defiance.

"Yes, if there's a serial arsonist ramping up their activity!" Prentiss snapped.

"Not to mention, man, séances aren't illegal," Derek pointed out.

"Since when?" Dunphy gaped at them.

"We're gonna need a full statement regarding the most recent fire," said Derek, ignoring him. "You can give it to us, or to one of the local PD. Your choice."

0o0

"Morning," Grace called, as she and Spencer strolled into the Pine Barrens Combined Fire Service Headquarters.

It was immediately obvious from how empty it was that those members of the town who had still been in town had had a much less restful morning than he and Grace had – enormous, impossible cryptids notwithstanding.

They found Rossi leaning against the front desk, scowling at passers-by. He was paler than usual and had dark circles beneath his eyes. Spencer frowned. For Rossi, that was big.

"Did the mechanic make it out to you okay?" the older agent asked.

"We passed him on the way here," said Spencer. "He said he'd tow the car back to town."

"Any idea what was wrong with it?"

"Uh… he said something about the electrical system," said Spencer, glancing at Grace.

The truth, but not all of it. Was this how Grace and Purdy had always had to live their lives?

It was kind of exhausting.

Rossi nodded, accepting it at face value – or something near it.

"Rosemary Purdy gave us a lift," Grace explained. "She wanted to check in on Missy Carpenter – and her cat."

She gave her senior agent a hard look, which he entirely ignored.

"Glad she's got someone lookin' out for her," he said, instead. "You two have an eventful night?"

Again, their eyes briefly met, providing an instant, unspoken agreement not to talk about strange winged things that came in the night.

"The – uh – wildlife was pretty active…" Spencer ventured.

"Oh yeah?"

Rossi looked between the pair of them, expectantly, but Spencer didn't feel like elaborating (he was a dreadful liar, after all) and Grace's attention was already focussed elsewhere, on the far side of the room. Spencer looked back at their friend to discover that the downside of their mutual decision not to talk about magic in front of the others was that Rossi was now giving him a very knowing look.

Aware that he was very much under scrutiny here, he swallowed and made an attempt to look puzzled – and to stop the blush that was already creeping out of his shirt and up, over his neck. Having his own, shrewd suspicions about what Rossi was currently imagining, Spencer wasn't about to engage.

"Who's that?"

Happy to seize upon any opportunity that presented itself, Spencer turned to find Grace inspecting a young teenager at the far end of the room, playing with a very weather-beaten, one-eared cat.

"Frank Dunphy's daughter," Rossi told them. "He was just charged with obstruction and incitement, so we're waiting on child services to pick her up."

"Hmm," said Grace.

Spencer's eyes narrowed. There was something about Grace's expression that told him things were about to get weird again. His friend was watching the girl almost hawkishly, with the same, slightly guarded expression she'd had on her face as she'd had when she'd called Rosemary Purdy 'mistress'.

Her mind was clearly on nothing but the girl now, so Spencer followed her across the Fire Service Headquarters, careful to stay a few steps behind her. He didn't want her to shut him out at the moment, particularly if his theory about what was going on between her and the girl was correct, she might just do that.

"Hi," said Grace abruptly, stopping in front of the girl.

She looked up, perhaps surprised at being addressed so directly. "Hi."

"I'm Grace, what's your name?"

"Faye," the girl replied, obviously perplexed by the slightly unnerving intensity with which Grace was currently inspecting her.

"Can I sit down?"

"Sure, I guess."

The cat, who had been dozing on Faye's lap, opened one eye, took one look at Grace and slunk off beneath one of the chairs.

Grace took the seat opposite Faye, still regarding her with that strange, powerful expression. She had her back to Spencer now, but he saw her body language change when she took on a more childish, candid aspect and looked around, furtively. She ignored him completely, though he must have been in her eye-line, and he took this as enough of a vote of confidence to relax a little.

He watched as she continued her furtive check of the room – it was faintly theatrical, and if he hadn't an inkling of what she was trying to do, he might have laughed at her. He recognised the tactic – she was including Faye in a kind of fabricated, shared world. Building a rapport.

"Bet you can't do this," she said, in a tone somewhere between secretive and daring.

Shielded from the rest of the room (and the CCTV, Spencer noted, with interest), Grace showed an open, empty palm to an increasingly bemused young woman. She closed her hand, briefly turning it so that the fist it made was knuckles-up, then turned it back again, revealing a single, sky blue butterfly.

It made his heart skip.

Spencer looked at Faye, who was instantly entranced, and watched as her expression shifted from surprise and excitement to a kind of triumphant concentration. She opened her palm in front of her, as Grace had, but then paused, frowned, and looked right at Spencer, who held his breath. He wanted more than anything to see how this was going to play out.

"Oh, don't mind him," Grace confided, without turning. "He's a bit of an amateur magician himself."

Faye appeared to accept this and Spencer let go of the breath he was holding. He leaned forward, one hand on the back of Grace's chair as the girl turned and closed her palm, then opened it again to reveal a large insect, its back end glowing fiercely.

 _A firefly._

Unlike the ones Spencer had seen before, this one was surrounded by miniscule embers, coiling around its body, tiny wisps of dark smoke trailing in their wake.

His heart sank, as he suspected Grace's had, too.

Faye grinned up at them, obviously very proud of herself. Spencer forced a smile.

"Beautiful," said Grace, and Spencer suspected she was being quite honest. "I have a couple of things I need to go over with my boss," she told Faye. "Then, if you're willing, I think we need to have a little chat."


	20. Neighbourhood Witch

**Essential listening: Fireflies, by Owl City**

0o0

She looked so very young and out of place in the interview room, cradling a soda and biting her nails.

The representative from child services had taken the change of plans reasonably well, though he was a good deal less cheerful than when he'd walked in. Supporting a young woman whose father had been arrested for obstruction and finding her some place to stay until he could be bailed out was one thing, supporting her through an interrogation regarding several major fires, one of which had been fatal, was another thing entirely.

He was obviously good at his job, however. He was treating Faye like a person, rather than as a child, and he had had a long talk with her about whether or not she wanted a lawyer present.

She had, rather stubbornly, waived that particular right.

"Alright," said Ash grimly, "let's get this over with."

Grace and Emily followed her in, the three women taking seats around the room, instead of across the table from the nervous teenager. There was already something about the way she was sitting that was taut and overstretched, as if she was near her breaking point. They didn't want that; it was entirely possible that the stress of the situation might make her shut down entirely.

They needed her to feel like they were on her side and they needed to be certain that she was their unsub – and neither of those things would happen if she freaked out.

"Hey Faye," said Grace, trying to pitch her voice somewhere around stern, but friendly. "You've met Emily Prentiss, I think, and you probably know Chief Carter."

"I don't think we've met, but I've seen you around," said Ash.

"Ma'am," said Faye quietly, acknowledging her.

Grace gave her a faint smile. She paused for a moment, unwilling to begin. There would be no going back once they had, and that felt quite daunting, to knowingly plunge forward and take the poor kid's life apart. For Faye, things would never be the same.

 _Things changed for her when she lit the first fire,_ Grace reminded herself.

"Do you know why we wanted to talk to you?" she asked.

"Yes," said Faye, in a small voice.

Quirking her eyebrows, Grace invited her to continue.

Faye swallowed, then said, "Because I started the fires."

The three women exchanged a sad look.

"Yes," said Emily. "Do you want to tell us about that?"

"O-okay," Faye replied, taking a deep breath. "A couple of weeks back, there was a fire in a trashcan in Presidential Lakes," she explained, still in that small, determined voice. "It didn't do any damage, really, except to the trashcan, but someone freaked and the Neighbourhood Watch Coalition got hold of it." She pulled a face. "Dad couldn't talk about anything else for two days, like somehow this one trashcan being burned was the end of civilisation."

She huffed in annoyance and then looked down, frowning, evidently remembering why she was there.

"Why did that bother you?" Grace probed gently.

"He spends so much time with that stupid Watch!" said Faye, and all three women could hear the anger there, beneath the pain of what she was admitting to. "I guarantee, if he could spend every second of every day with them, then he would. I never see him! It's like he just doesn't care – I mean, he talks so much about how it's all for me when he's visiting groups and stuff, but if we're at home he just ignores me. It's like he's obsessed!"

She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, which had obviously begun to tear up.

"I just – I just wanted him to _notice_ me," she continued. "And he wouldn't shut up about that stupid fire… I – I thought, if I planned it carefully and I set a couple of fires, he'd have to pay attention to me, instead. I swear, I never meant to hurt anybody!"

Across the room, Grace saw Ash look away, obviously thinking of the bodies she'd stretchered out of the old folks' home in County Lakes.

"Tell us about the first fire you set," Emily instructed. "How did you do it?"

"The trashcan in Manchester?" Faye asked. "I just got a book of matches and set some paper alight. Dad and the crazies at the Neighbourhood Watch talked about it for a day or so, then they stopped."

"So you had to set another fire?"

"Yeah…" said Faye, sadly. "It felt good for them to be talking about me – about something I'd done, but it didn't last long because Barbara ran into Missy Carpenter at the store and decided she was evil for the fifth time this year. I knew if I was going to get them going again, it would have to be bigger - and then I thought, if I got caught, Dad would really have to notice me then!"

"The next fire," said Ash, carefully. "Was that the same as the one before?"

"No." Faye shook her head. "I knew paper and matches wouldn't be enough. It wasn't hard to do – I get pretty good grades in Chemistry, and I help out with first aid in the Nurses' Office some days, so I – I picked the lock and took some rubbing alcohol."

"Why rubbing alcohol?" Grace asked.

"I read on the internet that you can make fire gel with it," Faye explained, confirming that it was her. It had to be. No one outside the department knew about the fuel – except Rosemary Purdy, and she'd been at the hospital all morning. "I got vinegar and acetic acid from home. Dad didn't even notice. I cooked it up right there in the kitchen."

"How much did you make?" Ash asked, sharply.

"Enough for a few fires," Faye admitted, not quite able to meet the arson investigator's eyes. "I – I kept it in a tin in the shed."

"Is there any left?"

"No ma'am," said Faye, earnestly. "I took it out back last night after the fire at the meeting hall, while Dad was at Barbara's, and burned it all. I – I don't want anyone else to – to get hurt."

She swallowed hard; it wasn't hard to tell how bad she felt about that.

"Tell us about the bus shelter and the shed," Emily encouraged, steering her back to the timeline.

"Um, sure… Martin's a parent governor at the school. He's working with Barbara to try to get Missy Carpenter's shop shut down because they don't like what she says to the kids. I was in her store last month when he came and threatened her. I – I figured if I had to burn something down it might as well be something belonging to someone who deserved it."

 _The road to hell is paved with good intentions_ , Grace thought.

"The bus shelter was Dad's pet project after the fires. He skipped out on my birthday for three years for it…" She frowned deeply. "The Neighbourhood Watch Coalition are so proud of it… I wanted them to stop and think."

"Did you use a timer for the bus shelter fire?" Ash prompted.

"No ma'am. I was there in person – and for Martin Penney's shed. I nearly got caught when his wife came outside, so I stole some kitchen timers from school the next day."

 _Smart,_ thought Grace. _But it would be only a matter of time before the school noticed and someone put two and two together. She really had wanted them to catch her._

"I – I set up the other fires in the morning… Dad has me ride around, pamphleting the area before school. I went to _Tall Pines_ and the meeting hall, and then the bar. The barman at _Mack's_ always lets me in for a drink of water because it's halfway through my route, and most of the Neighbourhood Watch Coalition drinks there after their meetings, so I knew that would get their attention." She looked wretched. "I thought it would be a small fire – nothing major, just a little one! I don't know how it got so out of hand! I never meant for those people to get hurt!"

Grace shared a brief look with her colleagues. If only that barman hadn't moved that bag.

The girl was crying now, and the child services worker patted her shoulder. They let him comfort her for a minute or so. Faye was obviously devastated by what she had done, but she had still done it, and they had to keep in mind that people had died.

"It got out of hand," she cried. "I know it's all my fault, but I swear I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"Fire is a dangerous weapon," said Ash, slowly.

Faye looked up at her then, and saw the darkness in the older woman's expression. She shivered a little, but kept her gaze. "I didn't mean for it to be a weapon," she mumbled.

"How did you get them to ignite?" Emily asked.

For a split second, Faye met Grace's eyes – not long enough for anyone else to think much of it, but long enough for them both to know that there would be no discussion of magic in this room.

"I – uh – I set the timers up so that they would knock the gel to the floor when they went off," she said, which was true, and added, "I broke them so the battery would spark at the same time, setting it off," which wasn't.

"The fire at _Mack's_ scared the heck outta me, and I wanted to go and get the one at _Tall Pines_ before it could go off, but Dad made me babysit for Barbara while they and Randy came and talked to you guys," she went on, the words tumbling out of her mouth now. "Her kids are so young – I couldn't just leave them. I tried calling _Tall Pines_ to warn them, but no one picked up."

Emily's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you call the fire service, or the police?"

"I was s-scared," Faye admitted, ashamed. "I knew you'd have to arrest me, because those people at _Mack's_ got hurt, and I – I was scared." She took a ragged breath, speaking through her tears now. "And – and then I found out that Mrs Reece and Mr Rogers had – had died, and –"

She broke down. The guy from child services rubbed her back, letting her know that she wasn't alone in there.

"Perhaps we should take a break," he suggested, but Faye waved him away.

"N-no," she said. "I did this. I don't get to – not talk about it."

Grace looked away, saddened.

"It's okay," said Emily. "We can stop for a little while."

Faye choked back her tears and shook her head. "No." She took another, deep gulp of breath before continuing, "After that, I knew I had to get to the meeting hall and stop that one. There wasn't supposed to be a meeting that night – it'… I was on my way there when Barbara and Randy passed me in her minivan, and they picked me up because 'children shouldn't be out on their own or they'll be preyed upon by monsters like that Carpenter bitch'. Her words – not mine."

She tucked her long hair back behind an ear. "They basically frog-marched me inside. They were the last people I wanted to tell that I was the arsonist, so I kept my mouth shut. I – I figured I could stop it spreading, but I didn't have the chance. I – I'm so, so sorry!"

Ash sighed, clearly torn between exasperation at how naïve the girl had been and how sorry she clearly was. "Why were you awake when Barbara Millette's call came through?"

"I couldn't sleep," she told her. "I – I knew I had to hand myself in. I was going to come straight here this morning. I couldn't stop thinking about Mr Rogers and Mrs Reece, and the guys at the bar who got burned. I just wanted my dad to notice me," she said again. "I never meant for anyone – anyone to get hurt."

"You know," Emily began, with some caution, "sometimes our subconscious drives us to do things we don't think we mean to do."

"No, I really didn't! I swear!" Faye protested, tearfully.

There was a brief silence before Ash spoke. "Honey, you locked the meeting hall doors. If we hadn't broken down that window, nobody was gonna walk outta there."

"No! No, I never locked them – I don't have a key!" Faye exclaimed, horrified. "I swear, I never went near the doors after I walked through them – I have no idea how that happened!"

0o0

On the other side of the one-way glass, Aaron turned to Frank Dunphy, still handcuffed having confessed to both obstruction and incitement. They had allowed him to observe the interview, and now his face was a mask of grief and horror.

"That was you, wasn't it?" Aaron asked. "You chained the doors shut."

It wasn't really a question. He had been near the back of the hall during most of the talks and when Faye had sworn blind she hadn't touched the doors, he had let out a strangled gasp.

"I – I thought it would keep us safe."

Aaron shook his head, disgusted with the man, and nodded for the local deputy to take him back to his cell.

0o0

It was sunny and warm, the sky was blue and there was just enough of a cool breeze to make you appreciate the sun's heat. It was, in short, a perfect summer's day – if you ignored the lingering smell of day-old smoke.

Grace and Ash were sitting on the grass verge outside the Pine Barrens Combined Fire Service Headquarters, watching the few, fluffy clouds wander across the sky. With their arms around their legs and their jackets off, they looked like a couple of bad kids drinking in the sun – except they were drinking soda, and both had badges.

"Well, that was a fucker of a case," Grace reflected, sipping her soda.

Ash snorted, though without a great deal of humour. "Nice to hear that you haven't lost your colourful language," she teased. "You give your reports with that mouth?"

"I'm off duty – at least until the end of lunch," Grace protested, happy enough to join in with the joshing if it meant they didn't have to think about the young girl they'd just had to arrest, or what her actions had created.

It didn't last long.

"You gonna tell me what she used as an ignition source?" Ash asked.

"Off the record?"

"Yeah."

"Some kind of fire spell that was triggered by the vibration of the timer going off. It's not hard to do in person, but delayed is… impressive.

Ash nodded, thoughtfully. "What did you tell your boss?"

"That I had a hunch."

"He took that?" Ash asked, surprised. "He struck me as a guy who didn't miss much."

Grace shrugged. "He doesn't. I think there's a certain amount of him not wanting to know, in that."

"I can see that."

They fell silent then, their eyes on one of the few people strolling through the sun. The news that someone had been arrested was slowly filtering through the community, and as such, people were beginning to relax. It would take significantly longer for them to recover from what their neighbours had done to the innocent woman running the candy store.

It was obviously on Ash's mind, since she said, "I spoke to the hospital. Missy's awake – and stable."

"That's good," said Grace, with genuine relief.

"She's got some recovery ahead, and the scars on her hands may never go away, but the doctor said they thought she'd make a full recovery."

"Did you get much out of her house?" Grace asked.

Several of the deputies and the auxiliary fire service officers had voluntarily started stripping out the remains of the building, picking out anything that they could save and taking it to people who could restore it for Missy, so that she had something to come out to when they let her out of the hospital. Not a single person had refused to help and no one was charging for their services.

The community was rallying around Missy – possibly out of shame, but it would definitely help.

"Some. Mostly random stuff, like crockery and the odd bit of furniture that didn't catch. Charlie pulled out a box of family photos that have fire and water damage – I think the guys are having a whip around to get them restored."

Grace dug in her pocket and pulled out a fifty. She handed it to her friend. "That's my contribution, then."

Ash nodded and tucked it away.

"Rosemary Purdy came by this morning," Grace told her, after a moment. "She's going to have Missy stay with her until she's back on her feet."

"Good to know someone around here is decent enough," Ash reflected. "Did you mention Faye?"

Grace nodded. "She's going to write to her."

"In juvie?"

"Wherever she winds up. Even if her dad won't be there for her, Rosemary can be." She pushed a hand through her hair, still a little tousled from her night in a car. "You need someone in your corner when you're on the edge."

Ash shot her a sidelong glance. "Do you think she meant to hurt those people?" she asked.

Grace thought for a moment. "No-o. I think she wanted to make a splash – as you said, it kind of felt like graffiti, or vandalism. It got out of hand."

"People just don't think about fire," Ash complained. "They think we control it, but we don't, not really. You can take all the precautions in the world, but sooner or later you'll get cocky and it'll take advantage."

"It's not alive," Grace pointed out, amused despite the unpleasantness of the subject.

"Sure as hell feels like it when you're in a burnin' building," Ash reflected. "It breaths, it eats, it increases, it moves, it reproduces… I totally get why early societies assigned it a god-like status."

"There's a little truth in every story, I suppose," Grace allowed.

After a while, Ash sighed. "I would not have pegged that kid for our firestarter."

"I guess everyone has a breaking point," Grace observed, recollecting her own collection of 'last straws'. "At least her mobile phone records confirmed her story about trying to call _Tall Pines_ before the device there went off. I talked to the director – apparently the TV was on so loud that afternoon that he could hear it on the other side of the building. No one would have heard that phone."

"I suppose it's a small consolation to the victim's families." Ash sighed. "What a mess. That kid had so much potential – even without the weird crap you can do."

"Everyone has darkness inside of them – it just depends on what you do with it," Grace reflected.

"Like you and Simon?"

Grace stiffened. Her head snapped around to find Ash watching her closely. She met her friend's gaze with sad eyes and nodded.

0o0

 _Know your own darkness so you can see: you are born in ruin. You are so terribly beautiful, so unbearably human._

 _Mia Hollow_


	21. Catching Out

**Essential listening: Walkin' Man, by Seasick Steve**

 **0o0**

Dave poured out his morning coffee, mindful of the stack of files in his office that needed attention, none of which he could presently start, given how close they already were to the briefing. He'd already leafed through their front pages, and they were all deep-concentration, three to four hour jobs, best suited for flying back from a scene on the jet, or when he couldn't sleep the night through.

A far better use of his time would be destressing with the team. A task that on some days, could be more difficult than others.

Across the room, Aaron Hotchner's office door slammed open with some force.

Clearly, this was going to be one of those days.

Everyone looked up, startled, as the usually collected senior agent stalked out of the room, looking murderous. "Reid! Pearce! In my office, now!" he barked, and stalked back in.

In the silence that followed, every agent in the room turned, files, mugs or phones in hand, to look at their two, stricken colleagues. Both had that wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights look that Dave associated with misbehaving teenagers caught by their dads. All the colour had drained from Reid's face and Grace's ears, just visible under her unruly hair, were going steadily pinker. He saw their eyes lock and Reid visibly gulp.

Emily was clearly about to ask them what the hell was going on when Aaron's voice rang out a second time. " _Now!_ "

Dave watched them go, astonished, as two of the most reliable and least disruptive members of their team hurried into Aaron's office, their heads bowed in shame, more or less the entire bullpen staring after them.

No one bothered to hide that they were watching their senior agent's office, so Dave navigated through them without a second glance and went to sit in his own office, where he could hear the distinct sound of Aaron not quite shouting at the two youngest members of his team. He couldn't, make out many of the words, but he distinctly heard 'You are federal agents!' and the tone was quite obvious. He waited until the door to Aaron's office had opened and closed, and the pair had scurried out, shamefaced, and retreated to relative safety the corridor, before strolling over.

He stuck his head into Aaron's office and found the man leaning with both hands on his desk, clearly annoyed and clearly incredulous.

Dave gave him an inquisitive look.

"I just got off the phone with the Sheriff of Croaker, Virginia," he told him, sounding exasperated. "He detained Reid and Pearce for trespassing on land owned by a man named Hankins, who has a field full of sculptures of giant former presidents' heads."

He sat down, momentarily speechless. "I – I can't even."

"Giant president's heads?"

"They were taking 'atmospheric' pictures, apparently."

Dave stared at him. "Reid?"

"I know," said Aaron, mystified. "The local deputy couldn't get over how polite they were – and seeing as they were federal agents he let them go without charging them. The farmer didn't seem to mind, either."

"But… Reid?" Dave said again.

"Yeah."

"Trespassin'?"

"In a field of enormous, creepy presidents' heads."

There was a moment where both men's mouths twitched, and they were forced to look down, lest the smiles that were threatening actually broke out.

"That sounds like something Reid would wanna do, but Pearce would follow through with," Dave reflected, when he'd got his face back under control.

Aaron nodded, with a slight frown. "Sometimes I wonder whether she isn't a bad influence on him."

0o0

Out in the corridor, where Spencer and Grace were not quite hiding from their early morning, inquisitive colleagues, Grace grinned at him.

"That was _so_ worth it," she said.

" _Totally_ worth it."

0o0

He had given Grace a five minute head start when they decided it was safe to come back out of the corridor, and she was nowhere to be seen. He suspected that she was in the situation room already, where JJ was setting up.

Emily was in the kitchen area, but fortunately, before she could quiz him on his illicit activities, Morgan walked in looking sufficiently baffled to deflect any interest in him and Pearce.

Relieved, he listened with genuine interest to his friend's story of confusion. He couldn't imagine throwing a coffee away to talk to a beautiful woman anyway, let alone her spotting him and calling him out on it – and he certainly couldn't comprehend forgetting someone so completely that he wouldn't recognise them when he talked to them.

"So wait, she knew your name?" he asked, as he stirred sugar into his coffee.

Emily, looking on with some amusement, snorted.

"I don't know how I could forget a face like hers," Morgan admitted, clearly astonished at himself.

"You've been with so many girls, you can't remember all their names?" Spencer continued, halfway between incredulity and winding his friend up.

He started towards the stairs into the situation room, Emily not far behind him.

"Oh, come on," Emily said, joining in. "Are you surprised?"

"This has never happened to me before!" Morgan exclaimed, following them.

"It hasn't happened to me before, either," Spencer remarked, suspecting that it didn't happen to many people, really.

"It _can't_ happen to you, you have an eidetic memory," Emily pointed out.

"And besides, you only got one name to remember," Morgan added, neatly turning the tables.

Spencer gave a sarcastic laugh. Like it was some kind of contest. He shook his head.

JJ, who was setting up the presentation, turned, amused. "Anyway, you wanna tell us why you and Grace were in trouble this morning?"

Spencer looked up and met her gaze for a moment. "No," he said. "No, not really."

"What…" Morgan – obviously interested – trailed off as Hotch, Rossi and Pearce walked in, the latter giving her unit chief a wide berth.

"Okay, uh – six victims have been killed in a series of burglar-homicides, all over central California," JJ told them, sitting down. In order: Bakersfield, Fresno, Chico, and – two nights ago – Alan and Brenda Paisley, in Sacramento."

"Big area," Rossi remarked. "Are we sure it's the same unsub?"

"His DNA was found in all the homes," JJ confirmed.

"They hadn't connected it because he crossed jurisdictional lines," Hotch explained.

"Smart," Grace reflected.

"The head of the Sacramento field office has established a multi-agency task force and he wants us to run point," JJ said.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, running his eyes down the list. "Looks like we got a lot of investigators on this one."

"We'll streamline it if we need to," Hotch decided.

"You should know," JJ began, with the air of someone who knows they're about to be extremely unpopular, "that they've already named him the 'Highway 99 Killer'."

Around the room, everyone shifted in their seat. That had 'bad idea' written all over it.

"We'll deal with that when we get there," Hotch told them, stemming any possible grumbling.

"What's his M.O?" Grace enquired.

"He targets one to two person households, he kills the victims while they sleep," JJ summarised, as Spencer flicked through the autopsy reports.

"Blunt force trauma with objects found at the home, multiple bashes to the head," he read aloud, grimacing

"After he kills the victims, he ransacks the homes for valuables," JJ added.

"Which is not unusual for a night-time burglary-homicide," Hotch said. "What's unique about this unsub," he continued, looking up at the crime scene photos on the screen, "is that after he kills them, he sits down to dinner in their homes. They found his DNA all over the food and the table."

Next to him, Grace scanned through the forensic report for a few moments, a frown on her face; it relaxed once she'd finished, and Spencer guessed she had been worried that human flesh might have been on the menu.

"Are these burglaries that turn into homicides, or homicides that turn into burglaries?" Dave pondered.

"Well, between the two offences, it seems the primary motivation is homicide," Morgan speculated. "I mean, otherwise he woulda just stolen the items and fled."

"But he stays there for hours," JJ argued. "He eats their food, tries on their clothes, showers – he even sleeps in their beds."

"It's like Goldilocks became a serial killer," Emily remarked.

"So he's trying to take over their lives, maybe? Inhabit them somehow?" Grace mused. "A kind of transference."

JJ sighed. "They've got plenty of DNA, but they found no fingerprints."

"He doesn't take their cars," Emily observed, reading the file. "So how does he get there?"

"No witness reports strange cars on the street," said JJ.

"No prints, no gun, no noise, no car, no witnesses," said Rossi, counting each one out on his fingers. "This all adds up to prior experience."

Grace nodded. "This guy is a ghost."

Spencer glanced in her direction, hoping she's not being literal. "There's a record on him somewhere," he said.

"And by the time we find them, he's moved on to another town," Emily complained. "Which could be anywhere."

0o0

 _Plenty sits still, hunger is a wanderer._

– Zulu proverb

0o0

As soon as they'd heard about the new scene in Modesto, they'd split up. Rossi, Morgan, Emily and Grace had headed to Modesto, while the others had continued to the Sacramento Field Office, where the core of the task force was busy being established.

Today it was a bustling hive of people; too many people.

Spencer eyed them warily, privately wondering how they'd take being sent home early. There was no order in the room, no organisation – just a lot of genuinely concerned people, desperate to catch a killer who had strayed into all of their territories. He made sure he had enough of a smile on his face to stop the agent making a beeline for them thinking he was displeased with the general clamour, and waited for his colleagues to do the customary nod-and-handshake routine that apparently had to happen wherever they went before anyone could do any work.

"I'm Agent Liman," said the tall, earnest man who had spearheaded the creation of the task force.

He shook hands with JJ.

"Agent Jareau. These are agents Hotchner and Reid."

"We – uh – reserved this room for you," said Liman, once he had shaken hands with Hotch too.

The agent led them to a reasonably sized situation room with a table and some chairs in it. There was a large, detailed map of California on the wall, along with smaller ones relating to each town or region the unsub had struck, decorated with the usual horrific crime scene photos and data. It was extensive and useful, and he very much approved. It was perfect for them – except for the walls, three of which were entirely windows. It gave Spencer the slightly unsettling feeling of being inside a fish bowl.

He glanced at the sign someone had put up in the centre of the map, which read 'Travel Pattern: "Highway 99 Killer"' and tried not to pull a face.

"Who named him this?" Hotch asked, keeping his tone light.

"I did," Liman admitted, looking faintly confused.

"I'm… gonna go get started on that memo," JJ said, reading Hotch like a book.

Spencer felt that she had the right idea. "Uh… I'm gonna help you…" he said, and made himself scarce.

Having nothing better to do, he followed JJ to the departmental kitchen and chatted idly about geographic profiling with a couple of agents from Fresno for a few minutes, before pulling out a file in an attempt to look busy and hovering near the door to the situation room. Sadly, the design of the situation room made Liman's discomfort clearly visible to several agents in the main room; even without looking up he could feel observation and concern rolling around the people clustered in the task force control centre, as it was currently being referred to.

He winced. Normally, none of them wanted to tread on anyone's toes, but the BAU had been asked to run point, and as such they were in charge. Liman had already made several decisions that were threatening the efficacy of the investigation, the large number of people milling around behind Spencer being one of them. The other mistake – and this one was huge – was naming the killer. The problem with names, apart from giving the murderer the kind of notoriety that some of them craved, were they detrimentally influenced the investigation, in this case pushing bias towards the highway and away from any other possible pattern of movement or mode of transport. You only had to look at how long it had taken authorities to connect the remains of any of Gary Ridgway's victims that were found outside the immediate vicinity of Green River to see where that kind of narrow thinking could lead.

Not meeting the older agent's eyes, Spencer walked back in as Liman began explaining to a room full of disgruntled agents why they had to go home, looking chastened and annoyed at himself.

They would be more help on the ground in their own towns than here anyway, Spencer reflected.

"How'd he take it?" he asked.

"He'll get over it," said Hotch, taking down the sign.

They could feel the eyes of the task force – good, professional agents who were now annoyed and disappointed at having to travel all this way and just go home again – on the back of his neck. The feeling receded as he focussed on the map. That was one of the benefits of being able to narrow his mind to only the task in hand; he might miss the odd line of conversation, but at least he could block out unwelcome distractions.

He scratched the back of his neck, thoughtfully. It was a skill he could have probably used in high school. While he and Hotch assimilated the information in front of them, looking for anything new, it really came in handy.

He had completely zoned out, his mind lost in a tangle of coordinates and behavioural patterns, that it took two whole rings of his cell before he noticed the buzzing sensation in his pocket.

He answered it, his mind still half on the crime scene photo he had been studying. "Yeah?"

It was Rossi. _"Reid, are you in front of a map?"_ he asked.

"Yeah, I am now," he said, moving to the big map of California that occupied half of one board.

" _I think I know how the unsub's getting around,"_ said Rossi. _"Do you see tracks linking Bakersfield and Sacramento?"_

Spencer nodded to himself, frowning as his eyes followed the railway lines up and down the state. Suddenly, it hit him.

 _Oh. Well, that made a lot of sense._

"He's hopping trains…"

0o0

They had spent much of the previous day absorbing information and reshuffling the task force. Spencer had gone to bed late and, in the absence of someone to talk to until dawn, dreamed of grumpy blonde witches catching trains.

When he and Hotch got back into the task force control centre, they'd found it staffed at a much more reasonable and useful level, with JJ (who was finding sleep harder to come by the closer to her due date she got) marshalling everyone with the skill of a general. It was a good feeling, knowing that things were finally rumbling forward in roughly the right direction – particularly with his friend's skilled and able hand on the tiller.

With fresh confidence, the team was chasing down every lead in every town, double and triple checking all their information, just in case. Sometimes, it was the extra legwork that really counted.

Morgan and Rossi had called fairly early to say that they were staying on in Modesto and heading down to the local homeless 'jungle', where the railway cop they had spoken with had told them the modern day 'hobos' congregated. Having assessed the crime scene, Emily and Grace were heading to Sacramento to join the rest of the team – a couple of hours' drive at this time of day, and weren't due in until at least lunchtime.

Hopefully, by then there would be something more for them to act on.

Spencer was engaged in another silent sojourn in front of the evidence board, examining every facet of the case so far, when his cell chirped noisily on the table. He looked down from the map to see that it was Emily.

"Hey."

" _Hey, you got a minute?"_ she asked.

"Yeah – where are you?"

" _We're just off Highway 99,"_ Emily replied, and Spencer ran his finger over the map, tracing the line of their journey. _"The whole drive up from Modesto – all I see are crops. Rows and rows of crops."_

"Farmlands," Spencer told her. "You can't see that from standard maps."

" _The railroad track runs parallel to Highway 99 most of the way. I think we're seeing a lot of what the unsub saw."_

He nodded. "Most of central California's one big valley. A flat basin completely surrounded by mountain ranges on all sides, fed by rivers, lakes and aqueducts. It's ideal for farming."

Grace, who was obviously listening, piped up: _"What if we're looking at a migrant farmworker? Someone working those farmlands who has to stay mobile to survive."_

Even with his mind on the case, Spencer couldn't stop the smile that graced his lips at the sound of her voice. Reminding himself that he ought to be more serious in a room full of pictures of horrific murder, he forced a frown.

"Or someone who used to be one?" he pondered aloud.

" _Yeah – if he's hopping trains up and down this region, and all of them are in or near farmland, he could be moving from job to job."_

Spencer nodded slowly. It made sense.

" _It's worth factoring into the conversation,"_ Emily added.

"I agree…"

Emily sighed. _"Alright, we'd better get back on the road."_

Spencer could hear Grace grumbling about discomfort and inconsiderate, wide-ranging unsubs and smiled again.

" _See you later!"_ Grace called, presumably over Emily's shoulder.

"See you…"

As soon as they hung up, he dialled Garcia's number.

" _Go ahead guys, I'm listening,"_ she responded, sounding wide awake and (he suspected) grossed out by pictures of corpses.

"Uh, Garcia? I need you to look into small farm towns all over central California," he said. "Track all unsolved homicides that involve night time burglaries and homes within a mile of train tracks."

" _Oh,"_ groaned Garcia, and he heard the dismay in her voice. _"You think there's more?"_

"I – yeah, I don't know…"

0o0

They'd given the profile and the task force was filtering it out to their regional posts, where all the agents who had been sent home the day before were eager to get tracking this guy. Liman, who had unknowingly steered the initial investigation away from train tracks, was still a little grumpy, though only really with himself, and was driving everyone hard to make up for it.

Grace and Emily had got back around late morning, and were being brought up to speed by Hotch while they unwound their backs and legs from the long drive. Meanwhile, Spencer was sitting with JJ, combing through the most recent crime scene report while she composed another press release. They needed as much help as they could get on this one, particularly given how mobile the unsub was, and that meant reaching out.

Abruptly, he heard JJ shift in her chair, wince and rub her belly. "Oof. Hah, he's kicking a lot today!"

Spencer looked up, amused. "In the third trimester there's an average of thirty foetal movements per hour. Babies kick to explore movement and strengthen muscle."

He smiled. He'd looked it all up when he'd found out his friend was pregnant, carefully keeping all his reading material away from Grace in case it upset her. He glanced up again to see JJ regarding him with a particularly sardonic expression on her face.

"What?"

"Have you ever actually felt a baby kick?" she asked, grabbing his hand.

Before he could object she had pressed it to her belly, where the baby was having a great time exploring movement. It was bizarre, like an alien parasite had taken up residence in his friend's body. The fact that he could feel it moving through her skin made him very uncomfortable.

"You feel that?" she asked.

Suppressing a shudder, he nodded. "Does that freak you out?" he asked, softly.

"No, not at all…" JJ frowned, taking in his expression. "Why, does it freak you out?"

"Very much so," he told her, reclaiming his hand.

JJ laughed. "Okay…"

Her phone began to ring, saving him from further comment, and she answered it.

"Hey Garcia."

" _Bad news alert!"_ the tech responded.

Whatever it was, it sounded urgent, and Spencer figured that was something they all needed to hear. "Uh, hold on one second," he said, turning and beckoning to the others through the glass. "Guys…"

Hotch, Emily, Grace and Agent Liman ducked out of the main office and into the situation room.

Liman asked, "What is it?" preparing himself for the worst.

"I had Garcia look into all unsolved burglary-homicides in central California, paying particular attention to small farm towns," Spencer explained.

" _I found his DNA in three more cities,"_ Garcia told them, heavily.

Everyone winced. Grace, possibly envisioning another long drive in her future, sank into the chair beside him, looking resigned.

"How did I miss this?" Liman asked, sounding beaten.

Spencer guessed he was feeling less and less competent by the hour. "Small towns don't always link their evidence up to state or national DNA databases," he said, in an effort to make him feel better.

This wasn't his fault, after all.

"It can happen when unsubs cross jurisdictional lines," Hotch added, nodding.

"What are the cities, Garcia?" Emily asked, ready to note them down.

" _Tehachapi, Vacaville and Orange Cove. All farm towns, all super far away from Highway 99."_

Liman sighed.

Grace was already at the map, searching out the names. They were widespread. Hotch had not been wrong about them logging a lot of miles on this one

"Garcia," she said, "see if the farm towns have seasonal specialities that peak around the time of the murders."

Hotch asked, "What are you thinking?"

"Well, if it is a migrant farm worker, he's got to have a reason to be in town that week," she theorised.

JJ got to her feet. "I'll update Morgan and Rossi. What's the timeline?"

0o0

The task force was scattering to the new locations, to help the people on the ground pick up the pieces of some very cold trails. Everyone left was trawling through anything they could find about migrant farm workers – how they worked, where they stayed, their work patterns.

Taking a brief break from the never-ending (but still enjoyable) paper trail, Spencer watched JJ out of the situation room window. She was tired today, and that alone held his attention, as concerned as he was for his friend's health, and that of her unborn parasite. She was reviewing stuff with Grace, holding her bump and fanning herself with a file. Autumn in California was hot – almost hotter than Nevada.

Distracted, he wondered what it would feel like to have his whole body taken over by an alien being.

"You considering it?" Emily asked.

Puzzled, he turned to find her watching him, curious. Grace, on the other side of the desk, looked up from the autopsy file in front of her.

"Considering what?"

"Having baby geniuses, one day?" Emily grinned at him.

Spencer paused and thought about it for a moment. In that moment, all the things that could go wrong for a child flashed through his head, all the what-ifs: health problems for a baby and their mom; all the connotations of his mom's condition; bringing a child into a world full of serial killers; the horror of losing them…

Briefly, his eyes met Grace's, who was watching him as curiously as Emily.

 _Also, I'd have to have a partner_ , he thought, taking in that mess of golden hair and those piercing blue eyes.

His treacherous mind led him to lock eyes with Grace again and he frowned, hoping fervently that neither she nor Emily could read that particular emotion right off his face

Before he had to answer, however, the phone went. Intensely relieved, he reached to answer it at once, his voice a bit more desperate than usual.

"Hello?"

Emily, apparently noticing his discomfort, smiled privately and looked down. He didn't dare glance in Grace's direction again.

Garcia sounded excited. _"I looked into what Grace said about regional specialities, and I've noticed that in the cities, including the new ones we've discovered, there is a spike in the sales of certain crops during the times when the unsub is there!"_ she announced. _"Last week of august, apples in Tehachapi. First week of September, tomatoes in Bakersfield. Second week of September, fall squashes in Fresno. Huh?"_ she finished, inviting their applause.

"So he's in town for a big harvest," Emily observed.

Spencer sat back, thinking. "An unsub riding trains from town to town between big harvests, who doesn't have a car or a permanent residence."

"Migrant farmworker," Emily agreed, nodding. "There's gotta be a way of tracking that."


	22. Catching Up

**Essential listening: Things Are Not Perfect in Our Yard, by Hem**

0o0

Aaron paced back and forth outside the most recent crime scene. Their unsub was taunting them now, which wasn't a great development. He glared out at the faces beyond the tape. At least they knew he wasn't sticking around for days, watching them work. He wouldn't be able to sit still once he left the home, having to follow the wind.

His cell phone went and JJ's name flashed up on the screen. He smiled slightly.

" _Hey, uh – update from headquarters, Rossi and Morgan are on their way to a farm in Tehachapi. Uh, I found a representative from the local housing authority, Cesar Hermanes? He's expecting you. Press release went out to the media with a photo from the pawn shop and I'm waiting to hear back from Garcia about tracking migrants who may have travelled the same route as our unsub."_

Aaron shook his head, wearing a wry smile. "JJ, what are we gonna do without you when you go on maternity leave?" he asked her.

Somewhere in Sacramento, she laughed. _"What, sir? You think I'd just leave you hanging?"_

"Does that mean you have a plan?"

" _I don't know,"_ she told him, not giving the game away and raising a broad smile. _"You'll see."_

0o0

Grace rubbed a trickle of dust-clogged sweat from her brow. They were out in the fields in the heart of California, watching the workers toil with not a shred of envy. It looked like hot, dusty work, and even with the stiff, cooling breeze it was oppressively warm in the sun. The weather reminded her of trailing across the Moapa Valley with Sheriff Hardy, hunting for ghosts. She supposed that it wasn't that far away, comparatively. Geography in America – compared to that in the UK – was so vast that it rendered everything relative.

The meeting with Cesar Hermanes had been instructive, but not immediately helpful. At least they knew why he wasn't a part of the work crews now. She had to approve of any organisation that cracked down on drugs and tried to keep its members safe, even if it meant their unsub was now ten times harder to track.

With that in mind, she followed Hotch, Emily and Spencer into the scant shade to take a call from Garcia, who had been busy researching, it seemed.

" _Okay, mini lesson,"_ their fearless warrior for karma began. _"Migrants work and travel in these mini groups, and the groups are called 'cuadrillas'. Now, I have found one such cuadrilla that was in Chico at the same time as our unsub. Then I checked and they were in Sacramento, Modesto and Vacaville at the same time as our unsub as well."_

"What about the first town?" Spencer asked.

Grace glanced up at him. He was barely sweating in the hard, dry heat. For the first time since she'd met him, she could believe he'd spent his formative years in a desert.

" _I have employment records from the apple farm in Tehachapi. This cuadrilla last worked there two days before Mildred Younce was killed,"_ Garcia informed them, with growing excitement. _"Now here's the whammy. An Armando Salinas checked in with this group in Tehachapi, but then he falls off the map. There's no sign of him in any of the camps."_

"Interesting," Emily commented.

" _Double whammy,"_ Garcia continued, sounding triumphant, _"Customs and Immigration have a rap sheet on him for theft and assault – and he's wanted in connection to some burglaries."_

"There's the record we've been looking for," Spencer observed, drily.

" _Triple whammy, his fingerprints were one of seventeen found in Mildred Younce's house."_

"That's got to be him," said Grace.

"Get us his photo and get JJ to get it out to the media," Hotch instructed. "We're going to need the public's help."

" _Sending you his mug…"_ Garcia told them, busily typing away. _"The group that he's been following, they checked into Lockeford early this morning,"_ she added. _"That's not far from you."_

"Better get Mr Hermanes on side if we want their help," Grace suggested, determined not to notice how distractingly windswept and cute Spencer looked with the breeze blowing his hair around like that.

0o0

Spencer stood with his arms crossed, watching Emily interview their unsub's brother in a small room in the Sheriff's Office in Lockeford. The man looked sad, as if he'd known this day had been long expected. Spencer had very rudimentary Spanish, living languages not being his forte, but he could follow just enough of the conversation to gather that the last time he'd seen Salinas was in Tehachapi, and that he had kept in contact when he could.

Emily came out, frowning deeply. "The killings started in Tehachapi," she reasoned. "I think his brother rejecting him must have been the stressor."

"Morgan and Rossi made it here," Spencer told her. "Grace went out to meet them – they're with rail security. Hotch and Liman are patrolling neighbourhoods."

It left him and Emily in the Sheriff's Office, from where they could coordinate the local search.

"Okay, I think it's time we get these guys going," said Emily. She addressed the room at large, "Excuse me, could we have your attention please, everybody?"

Spencer moved into the tight crowd of deputies and auxiliary staff, many of whom had been called in on their night off, handing out Salinas' photo and description.

"This is Armando Ruiz Salinas. He's thirty-eight years old, a Mexican national," Emily announced. "We believe he's currently in the vicinity of Lockeford and its outlying towns."

"He'll only target homes within a mile of train tracks," Spencer advised. "You'll be assigned search quadrants."

"Think the way a burglar would," Emily instructed. "Pay close attention to houses that have no exterior lights on, no security alarm signs or barking dogs nearby. Let's go!"

It would take them some time to hit the street, so they went back into the interview room. It was important to know what their friends would be dealing with. Spencer settled on the cupboard at the back of the room, trying to make the man who was realising how much damage his brother had done feel marginally more comfortable.

"Are you surprised the police are looking for him?" Emily asked.

"He's my half-brother," he said, speaking heavily and slowly in English. "I wasn't around for him when he was young. He's been in trouble all his life. Was in jail in Mexico. I thought, if he came to work with me, he would change. I'm grateful to work, but Armando hated work. Hated the camps. Always complained he never had a nice bed to sleep on."

He shook his head. "When he was a kid, he slept on the floor. In jail, he slept on the floor. All he ever talked about was having a house of his own. A bed to sleep on," he told them, painfully.

There was a great deal of grief in this man's voice, and it wasn't hard to read that he felt he had failed him, but this wasn't his fault. Ultimately, the stressor that set him off could have come in any form and at any time.

Spencer looked away. This kind of unsub would fight until the very end. There was no way they would be bringing his brother good news by the end of the night.

0o0

They were rolling along the backstreets of Lockeford when the call came in, shadowing the tracks. It crackled through all their radios, straight from dispatch:

" _Suspect seen fleeing the four hundred block of Pearl Blossom Avenue. All units respond."_

Grace immediately tensed; they'd been in Lockeford for so little time she didn't know the geography here. Tonight, without outside help, they would be hunting blind.

Sure enough, Spencer's voice came over the radio, sounding tense. _"Morgan, that's in your area. I'm going to send Hotch for backup."_

Morgan pulled the kind of u-turn that she would have arrested him for back in London, she and Rossi hanging on to the suit hangers in the ceiling of the car for dear life. They shot into the railyard, pulling up with a spray of gravel. Grace was already unbuckling her belt, and slid out of the SUV before the other two had even open their doors.

A railway cop with long hair and a slightly wild expression jumped out of the nearest train car, spied the flashing lights, and yelled, "I saw him goin' down toward the trains – but I lost him. There's over one hundred freight cars on these tracks. About a third of them are open boxcars – that's where he'll be hiding!"

He looked pretty relieved to have backup. Grace wasn't surprised. One look at the railyard told her that this place was a labyrinth – and one their unsub knew dangerously well.

"Middle," Rossi barked, pointing at Morgan and Grace. "I'll take south, you go north," he added, to the railway cop. "We don't think he's armed, but he is very dangerous."

Grace and Morgan set off at a low run, strafing past each boxcar, checking and clearing above and below them as they went. The trouble was, he could already have eyes on them – all he'd have to do was keep moving and their job would be considerably harder. This unsub was scared and not entirely in-touch with reality, which made him dangerously unpredictable.

There would be no negotiating with him, she reflected, crouching so she could see under the train to her left. Either they would take him by surprise and cuff him, or they'd have to take him out.

Grimly, she skirted around the edge of the last car of the train, nodding to Morgan to take point. The two agents travelled silently through the autumn night, taking extra care to keep one another's backs covered. Their prey was a man whose chosen weapons were tools of the moment – anything with a blade or a decent weight to it. He wouldn't be using a ranged weapon, but there was nothing stopping him climbing up and leaping at them with whatever lump of metal or wood he found to hand.

Distantly – but clear enough to tell them it was moving nearer – they heard the tell-tale blast of a horn. Grace's grip tightened on her gun. That was the last thing they needed.

" _Morgan, Pearce, we got a train,"_ Rossi warned, over the radio.

 _Must be heading south, then,_ Grace thought, eyeing up the nearby tracks, trying to guess which one the massive machine might be moving through. The driver would have no idea what was transpiring in the yard he was passing through, and any one of them might simply step out into his path – including their unsub.

Morgan disappeared around the next train car; Grace shone her torch into the adjacent train, somewhat on edge.

The longer they moved between the railcars, the more the feeling was stealing over her that something here was very wrong. She fought the urge to reach for her father's pocket watch, which was usually tucked in her trouser pocket. It didn't fit comfortably under protective vests, however, so she had left it at the station, under Spencer's watchful eye.

She turned the corner of the next car and spotted the train, rumbling towards her, still far enough away for her to get out of the way. That was when she heard Morgan's shout.

"Hey! FBI – stop!"

Swearing, she dashed across the path of the oncoming train to meet him and skidded to a halt beside him. On the ground she could see a large, misshapen lump; it took her a moment to realise it was the railway cop, sprawled out across the lines. A flash of the torch told her that he had been stabbed multiple times – probably too many times. Skidding to a halt beside him, she felt for a pulse while Morgan hurriedly checked the nearest rolling stock.

The poor guy hadn't stood a chance.

She looked up as the train rumbled past, a shadow with long hair and a uniform watching her sadly, silently, just beyond her partner. Grace reached down and closed the man's eyes, hoping that by the time she raised hers once more he would have gone.

Suddenly, she felt the brief press of Morgan's hand on her shoulder, telling her to look up in time to see a second dark figure on the roof of the moving train, staring down at them with cold, dead eyes. As one, the two agents took off after the train.

There was no way they were letting him get away after this, even if it meant chasing down several thousand pounds of iron and steel.

Although the driver had obviously slowed down to pass through the yard, it was still moving significantly faster than they were at first, and the end of the train quickly caught up with them. Wordlessly, Grace ducked around the other side of the train, giving them both a clear view in case he tried to jump for another carriage. Odds were he wouldn't, though – not with the possibility of escape so tangibly within his grasp.

 _No_ , Grace thought. _He'll stay on that train even if it kills him. He thinks of it as his territory now. He's already killed once to defend it, he won't hesitate a second time._

She sprinted alongside the car, keeping pace with Morgan on the far side, step for step.

"We got him, Rossi!" Morgan shouted, into his radio.

"He's on the roof of the train!" Grace added, every muscle in her body beginning to complain.

Abruptly, Morgan's footsteps stopped entirely; guessing that since she hadn't heard him fall, he must have climbed up the side of it, she kept pace with the last car she'd seen the unsub on top of. If Morgan could force him over and he tried to climb down her side she'd have him.

Rossi's voice crackled urgently, over the radio, _"Hotch – Morgan and Pearce are chasing the unsub on a moving train! They're heading south towards town!"_

" _I'm on it,"_ Hotch responded at once.

Their voices registered in the part of her mind that wasn't currently wholly focussed on running with her gun trained on the unsub's boxcar and not tripping over any of the hundreds of crossing tracks beneath her feet.

Salinas hadn't been visible above the train for some time, and for a while it was impossible to hear any indication of movement over the rattle of the wheels and the roar of the engine.

Suddenly, over the tumult, she heard the distinctive sounds of a scuffle; a voice that she was almost certain belonged to her friend cried out in pain. The ubsub swung into view, dragging Morgan towards the edge of the train as the other man struggled to push him back. She aimed her gun high, but there was no way she could get a clear shot from this angle – Morgan's head was in the way.

Somewhere on the other side of the train, she heard the sound of sirens approaching.

 _Hotch and Liman._

They would have a clearer shot from the SUV – and a steadier aim – but none of that would matter if the unsub incapacitated Morgan before they drew level. She needed to buy him some time.

With only a split-second's consideration (and praying the thing wouldn't simply rear up and topple over), Grace took her left hand off her gun, reached out towards the wheels of the train and twisted her hand as violently as she could. With a dreadful screech, the breaks slammed on, showering her with sparks and casting both the unsub and Morgan flat on their backs on the roof of the boxcar.

She trained her gun above her, hearing the SUV on the far side of the train matching its speed. The unsub was first on his feet – and now he had a lump of metal in his hands, possibly the same one he'd used to murder the railway guard. He raised it above his head, ready to strike down at Morgan, but in the instant before he could, two shots rang out, almost in perfect unison.

Grace lowered her gun, watching him fall. She mustered enough breath to shout her friend's name into her radio, still matching the speed of the train as best as she could.

" _I'm alright,"_ he reported, after a moment. _"Salinas is down."_

" _We're heading to the front of the train to get it to stop,"_ Hotch advised, sounding stern. _"Morgan, stay where you are."_

Allowing her pace to slacken, Grace ran herself towards the nearest boxcar, behind which Rossi was just emerging, running to meet them. She collapsed at the edge of it, catching a ladder rung in the crook of one arm to hold herself up. To her surprise, she found herself being supported on the other side and looked up to discover Rossi tugging urgently on her arm.

He led her to the nearest safe ground – a raised concrete island in a sea of tracks.

"Railway cop – dead –" she managed, between painful gulps of air. She pointed back along the tracks and paused, surprised at how far she'd travelled.

"Alright," said Rossi. "Stop trying to talk. It's done."

0o0

 _Beyond the east the sunrise, beyond the west the sea. And the east, the west, the wander-thirst, that will not let me be._

 _Gerald Gould_

0o0

It turned out, when you chased down an unsub on a moving train it created a depressing amount of paperwork. They'd spent the morning after the take-down wrapping things up at Lockeford and Sacramento and the afternoon writing their reports on the jet. Grace had cheerfully left a few details out of hers, particularly pleased that no one had seen her little stunt with the brakes. This time, not even Reid had questioned her about it, even with the rattled train driver telling anyone who would listen that they had simply slammed on of their own accord.

They all had taken it as read that such things just happened some times.

Grace was privately quite relieved. It wasn't a great excuse, and it wouldn't hold up too many times, but she would take what she could get.

Back at Quantico, nearly a day after the fatal chase, bruised but content that they had got another bad guy off the streets – or tracks, in Salinas' case – the members of the BAU trailed out of the bullpen, ready to kick back and chill. And eat.

"Hey, do you guys have plans tonight?" Spencer asked, conversationally.

"I was thinking about getting a burger," Morgan admitted.

Grace's stomach rumbled at the suggestion. "Mmm, that sounds good."

"Oh, I could eat," Emily agreed.

They were almost at the lifts when JJ interrupted them, another woman beside her.

"Oh, hey guys, I wanted to introduce you to someone," JJ called, bringing them to a halt. "This is Agent Jordan Todd. She'll be taking over for me while I'm on maternity leave."

Grace raised an eyebrow, taking in this new addition to their team. Agent Todd was immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place. She was roughly JJ's height, with dark skin and a bright smile. She was holding herself demurely, with a certain amount of bearing. Grace wondered whether she had been a dancer in her youth. She would have been good at it, she decided.

Todd waited for JJ to finish speaking before introducing herself. All in all, she gave a favourable sort of impression.

 _Every inch the professional_ , Grace thought, automatically. _And cares very deeply about the job. Well, that's a good start._

"Agent Jareau's told me so much about you all. You must be agent Prentiss," said Todd. The two women shook hands.

"Yes, nice to meet you," Emily replied, smiling broadly.

 _Confident, too,_ Grace observed.

"Hello, Dr Reid," said Todd, somehow contriving Spencer, who hated unfamiliar touch so very much, to shake hands with her as well.

"Hi."

Grace was impressed. Then it was her turn.

"Agent Pearce."

Agent Todd shook hands like someone with integrity, like a normal human. It wasn't too firm, which always suggested to Grace someone was trying too hard, or too hesitant.

"Hello." She grinned.

"And Agent Morgan," Todd finished, shaking his hand too, beaming. "Nice to see you again."

Was it Grace's imagination, or was there the hint of mischief present in that smile?

"Nice to see you, too," Morgan replied, a strange, but not unwelcoming expression on his face. "So, this must be the good news?"

"This would be my brownie," Todd acknowledged, somewhat enigmatically.

 _Oh-ho,_ Grace thought. _Busted!_

Emily had told her all about Morgan's little coffee shop adventure on the drive from Modesto up to Sacramento. Beside her, Spencer gave a sharp, quiet huff of breath that suggested he was having to work quite hard not to laugh.

"Um… you two have met?" Emily asked, eyes twinkling.

They were going to have so much fun with this.

"Briefly," Morgan admitted.

JJ smiled as if she'd heard Todd's version of the story as well as Morgan's. "Well, Agent Todd comes to us from seven years at Counterterrorism," she told them.

Everyone nodded, impressed. You had to be good to work for that team. They were juggling more plates than a circus clown most days. That would come in handy.

"I'm really looking forward to working with the Behavioural Analysis Unit," Todd told them.

"We're starting her training now," said JJ.

"Training her right now?" Spencer queried. It was quite late, after all.

"Well," JJ chuckled, clutching her belly, "we're kind of running out of time."

The team laughed, Grace among them, brushing off the familiar ache that interacting with her pregnant friend always elicited.

"So, um, let me introduce you to the rest of the team," JJ offered.

"Yeah," said Todd, allowing herself to be steered towards the bullpen. "I'll see you all in the field, team."

"We're looking forward to it," Emily called after her.

As soon as they were out of earshot, everyone turned to look at Morgan, who was already making a break for the lift.

"Um, so is there anything you want to tell us?" Emily asked, skipping to catch up with him, the biggest grin on her face.

"Nope!"

Behind him, Grace grinned at Spencer.

"Your forehead's sweating," Emily pointed out.

"No, it's not," Morgan denied, trapped as he waited for the lift.

"Your shoulders are tense," Grace observed.

"Nuh uh," Morgan protested, torn between amusement and embarrassment.

"Oh, and he's avoiding eye contact now!" Emily exclaimed, joyfully.

"His blink rate just sped up!" Spencer noticed.

The lift arrived and Morgan stepped into it, stubbornly facing them. "You know what, guys, I don't think I want that burger too much anymore," he declared.

"Spoilsport," said Grace, as he pressed the ground floor button.

"Oh, come on!" Emily scoffed. "You can't run from us!

She made to follow him, but he got in her way, effectively pushing all three of them back out of the lift. "Well, watch me!" he said, as the doors slid closed.

Emily couldn't stop herself from snorting. "Oh!"

"Aw man!" Spencer moaned, half-heartedly, then burst out laughing.

Grace pressed the call lift button, laughing uproariously, happy to enjoy the moment with her friends. "You know, if anyone comes out of the bullpen right now, they're going to think we're completely nuts…"

0o0

Morgan had bailed on them entirely, so when they'd run into Garcia in the car park and she'd suggested driving into Washington for something to eat, Grace, Spencer and Emily had piled into her fabulous orange car and headed off.

It had taken some work, but Garcia and Emily had eventually managed to wheedle enough information out of Grace and Spencer to figure out just why Hotch had been annoyed with them, and all four of them had roared with laughter. Garcia had made them promise to take her with them to see the eerie plantation – when or if the farmer agreed to let them back in.

After a very enjoyable burger (which they had sent pictures of to Morgan, so that he knew exactly what he was missing), they had split up, Garcia announcing she needed a couple of things from the twenty-four hour market on the corner, and Emily remembering that she could do with a bottle of milk. They'd shouted something about meeting back at the parking lot as they'd crossed the street.

Grace and Spencer had strolled on with the intention of running their eyes over the programme on the outside of the garden theatre at the end of the row, since most things were already closed at this time of night. They had almost got there when the sky – which had been threatening since they'd landed – had opened pretty spectacularly. It was a proper early autumn storm, cooling what remained of the waning warmth of the sun, which was still strong at this time of year, and drenching everyone on the street in a matter of seconds.

The few pedestrians still present scattered in the direction of the car parks, or back up the road towards the bars and diners.

Letting out gasps and squeals as the icy torrent hit them, the two of them ran to find the nearest cover, under the lee of a nearby building, both of them shaking rain off their faces and pushing their hair back out of their eyes. As soon as they were under cover, Grace burst out laughing again.

Spencer, tall and gangly at the best of times, looked like a drowned rat, his hair dripping with rainwater. It was intensely adorable, particularly with the day-old stubble on his chin. He stared at her, nonplussed, for a couple of seconds, before he too started to laugh, infected by helpless mirth. Realising she must look a fright, Grace grinned.

The smile Spencer gave her – playful and joyful – made her heart skip, which was probably why, without a single thought in her head, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. She couldn't resist.

She felt him startle, but he didn't pull away, and for a moment, the kiss was sweet and perfect.

Then her head kicked back in.

Grace stepped back, the realisation of what she had just done rising up within her. Her mouth fell open, shocked at the dangerous line she had just crossed. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared instead at Spencer's navel.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, "I don't know where that came from. I –"

She had been about to garble some kind of explanation and flee when Spencer interrupted her. "I – uh… hah," he said, his hand going awkwardly to the back of his neck. "I'm really not complaining."

Her eyes flew up to his face, where she was surprised to find a slight flush and a growing half-smile.

 _This is a very bad idea_ , Grace thought, but aloud she said, "Oh." She moistened her lips, a similar smile forming on her own face. "Well then…"

She couldn't have said which of them closed the gap between them, or whose hands sprung to whose waist first. She didn't care. All she knew was that at some point his hand had wound up in her damp hair, somewhere around the back of her head, and that his lips were warm and very willing, and that she couldn't care less right now precisely why they shouldn't be doing this.

They broke apart, breathing harder than before, unable to keep the grins off their faces, raindrops merging from one person to the other, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

0o0

 **Wow! Another ficisode down! I have to thank my awesome reviewers – you guys keep me going when I consider packing it all in! Enormous thanks to my fabulous regulars, Evanescencefan97, gossamermouse101, Beckswim21, ahowell1993, tannerose5, xenocanaan, LeopardFeather, Owlix and, of course, MuggleCreator and starryskies-16, who are in my corner on and off ffnet :) You don't know how much you guys do for my writing!**

 **Also to TrinJ, goldeneyes123, Evaline101, Sue1313, be-true-2-you, DisneyLover100, UltimateGotham, LilPrincess95, Angelic demon chick, Axarell and knobloch2618, who have all contributed to the awesome of late!**

 **An honourable mention needs to go to Apolline Tabourot, Mina Lofthouse, Emilie Addison, Novellus Batman and Tatianna Barton for stopping me going mad and helping patch up plot holes, and to JC and Bones for reading bits through and telling me if they sound okay – love you all!**

 **I have to thank all of you, particularly, for being there for me when my mum got sick this year, be it as a shoulder to laugh maniacally on, a reviewer with good wishes or practical help. Believe me when I say it made all the difference.**

 **With this in mind, I'm putting back the beginning of the next ficisode until Friday the 6** **th** **of January 2017. I know that's six weeks away, so I can only apologise, but I'm still looking after mum post-treatment, planning a wedding and publishing two books on top of work and writing, so I think I need to take a little while off so I don't go insane! It's been a hell of a year, both in the fic and out of it, and believe me it's taken some thought, but I need some brain-space to really make the next couple of stories work :)**

 **I also have a promise to several people to fulfil to get** _ **The Coming Storm**_ **, the next story in the Amelia Brown series, moving again.**

 **You can find my books, incidentally, over at the website with an address that has laurenknixon and a dot and a com :) I also have an author page on facebook if you fancy stopping by (the one with the mad purple-haired person on it) under the same name.**

 **If you want to make sure you catch my next fic, hit the 'follow author' button at the bottom of the page.**

 **Hope you all have a fabulous end of year, filled with joyous celebration of whatever faith you choose, and that you are all safe and warm (or cool, for those of you in the Southern Hemisphere) ;)**

 **Love and pickles,**

 **Parlanchina xx**


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